Journey's End
by TracyLeeT
Summary: This story is set after "The First Born" and "The Last Viking." Joe is troubled by his half-brother's betrayal. Despite the best intentions from Pa, Adam, and Hoss, Joe must find a way to come to terms with his disappointment.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

He'd ridden for hours, stopping once to rest the horses and once to fill his canteen from the stream and answer nature's call amid the brush. Grasping his saddle horn, he raised his face to the sky. The midday sun caught him by surprise. Even with the packhorse, he'd made good time. Feather Point sat about forty minutes ahead, and after an hour or so more, he'd be in Arrowhead Canyon. There, he'd have his first or many meals of beans and biscuits before finishing his first day's ride. If the unexpected didn't slow him down, he'd make it to South Bend, settling in to have a late dinner as dusk fell against the mountain.

With each stop along the grand swing, he wouldn't dawdle and he wouldn't hurry; he'd keep a steady pace. Most of all, he planned on doing his best to avoid thinking – something he hadn't had much success with back at the ranch.

The miles ticked by and before long, Joe knew he'd reached familiar ground. Feather Point. Jutting orange and crimson layers pierced a perfect September sky. He smiled. Here, and for the next twenty miles, the Ponderosa landscape lay dotted with flowering scrub brush and sand-polished rock, yet despite the surrounding beauty, a twinge of longing surged through him.

Time. _"It heals all wounds, son. The best thing you can do is fill your days with man's work and spend your nights in the company of family and good friends."_ The adage was heartfelt, and one he'd heard far too often of late.

Still, he'd tried it his pa's way. He'd tried until his already calloused palms blistered and bled and his muscles begged for mercy. He'd tried it his brothers' way, until his cheeks tingled from bogus smiling and his eyes blurred from endless, tedious games of checkers.

Joe knew they meant well, his father and brothers, but the burden was his and his alone. Three weeks since his life had changed, and he was still sinking, feeling he'd been lassoed, hogtied, and tossed headfirst into a stagnant swamp.

And the note. He'd left them a note. But back at the house, would they understand, or had he caused them more worry than they deserve?

Earlier that morning, the sudden rush of frigid, hallway air came as no surprise. Nevada winters could be brutal in the mountains, despite the warmth in the desert below. Ben was grateful for his bedroom fireplace. Coming down the stairs, he drove the last of his buttons into place, fussed with his shirttails, and tugged his sleeves at the wrists.

Crossing to the breakfast table, the aromas of a well-stoked fire and freshly brewed coffee filled his lungs. Ben couldn't help but smile; Hop Sing was as punctual as he was efficient.

As if on cue, the slight Chinaman appeared, a tray bearing a cup and saucer and a steaming pot of coffee in his hands.

"Breakfast ready soon, Mister Cartwright. You want to wait for sons, or you want eat before sun rises?"

Ben smiled. "You know my sons well." He raised the pot from the tray and poured himself a cup. "I'll eat as soon as breakfast is ready, Hop Sing."

"Bacon crispy, ham and biscuits warm in oven, eggs ready to cook."

"Ham and bacon? Well, the smell might just lure those three boys of mine out of bed before daybreak."

Hop Sing smiled and dipped his head. "Mister Adam and Mister Hoss, but not Little Joe."

Ben held his cup with both hands. "Joe loves ham and bacon."

"Yes, but Joe already up and gone. His horse not in barn when I go out for milk bucket. And this,"—Hop Sing pointed to a note on the dining table— "his writing."

Ben placed his cup on the table and picked up the folded paper, a feeling of dread creeping across his chest as he silently read the single word on the front—"Pa."

Fifteen minutes later, Ben still sat at the table, his breakfast untouched. The note, having been read over and over, lay next to his nearly-full cup. Distracted by his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the first glimpse of sunrise or Hop Sing's concerned glances from the hallway, and when Adam leaned down, cleared his throat, and lightly touched his father's shoulder, Ben was jolted back to the here and now.

"Pa, you all right?"

Blinking away the fog, Ben lifted his eyes to the anxious faces of his two oldest sons.

"Somethin' wrong, Pa?"

Ben's lackluster nod matched his expression.

"Hop Sing hear voices," he said as he stepped into the room. "Coffee on table. Breakfast on table in one minute."

A quick glance at Adam, and then, Hoss, was telling.

"Thanks, Hop Sing," Hoss said, his eyes shining with concern.

"Pa?"

Finally, Ben looked at his son.

"Pa, something's obviously on your mind," Adam took a seat, his gaze fixed on the folded note. "You gonna tell us what it is, or do we have to guess?"

"Your brother's volunteered to do the grand swing." Ben filled his lungs and spoke softly as he exhaled. "He left during the night."

Hoss shoved his hands into his pockets, and Adam leaned forward, pressing his palms against the table.

"Look, Pa. We've all been worried about Joe," Adam said. 'He tried it your way, Pa, working long, hard days, keeping busy till he was exhausted enough to sleep. And he tried going along with Hoss and me, like nothing was different, like nothing had happened."

"He did at that," Hoss said softly, "but we knew he was still hurtin'."

Adam glanced up at Hoss. "But the grand swing . . . Maybe it's time Joe tried his own way to accept that Clay's gone. Maybe he needs time alone."

Ben folded his hands on the table. "You may be right, son."

"You think the swing's a ruse, don't you?" Adam asked. "You're worried Joe took off after Clay."

Hoss grabbed the note and read in silence. "Pa, you read this, 'n' so did I. Joe says he's doin' a grand swing 'n' I believe him. Joe ain't no liar."

"Hoss is right, Pa. Just last night, you said one of us needed to volunteer or you would make the decision. Joe went up to bed early, and I'd bet a year's wages he thought about it and decided he'd rather make a swing than stay around here with the three of us watching his every move."

"That's right," Hoss added. "Remember that time you sent me 'n' Joe on a swing? Joe argued 'n' tried to wangle his way out of it. Why, he made such a ruckus, Pa, you put your foot down 'n' then rode off to Virginia City. Said we'd best be half way to the first line shack afore you made it to town."

Adam cocked his head. "Hoss, you're debating for the wrong side."

"Now hold on, Adam," Hoss demanded, his hand raised in protest. "Lemme finish. Pa rode off, Joe stormed upstairs, 'n' I took off to the barn to saddle the horses. Joe showed up a couple minutes later with a sack of food 'n' a biscuit hangin' outta his mouth. Oh, he moaned 'n' sputtered the first mile or so, but the kid sure 'nough took to hours of ridin' 'n' checkin' on the shacks 'n' playin' detective, lookin' for the markers."

Ben thanked Hoss with a pat to his hand. "Your brother's not a kid any longer. And he found a connection to the past—to his mother. And now-"

"And now," Adam interrupted, "isn't it possible that he's trying to reconnect with a more recent past? With the Ponderosa?"

Hoss handed the note to his father. "Read it again, Pa."

Ben drew the paper closer. "Pa," he said aloud, "I'm making the grand swing. I've taken the ledger and our best packhorse. I'll pick up supplies in Virginia City. I'll get the job done, Pa, and I'll be home as soon as I do. See you soon. Joe."

Carrying a tray of eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits, Hop Sing entered the room. Adam reached for the bowl of eggs, and Hoss nabbed the plate of bacon and ham. Ben sat in silence, staring at the note.

"Pa," Adam said as he spooned eggs onto his plate, "Hoss and I will go after Joe, if you want."

"But you don't think you should."

"No, I don't. Hoss?"

Hoss set his fork and knife against a thick slice of ham. "I know what it's like to set your heart on a future 'n' then have that future, that dream yanked out from under ya. Pa, sometimes a man needs to work things out for himself. I know I did, 'n' I reckon that's what Joe's doin'."

Ben nodded, but anxiety lingered on his face.

Adam poured himself another cup of coffee. "I couldn't have said it better, Hoss."

Ben relaxed back in his chair. "You boys present a good argument."

"Pa, we ain't gonna stop worryin' 'bout Joe. But we have to see fit to let him do what he needs to do."

"He still has a whole lot of life ahead of him," Ben said quietly, "with or without his brother, Clay."

Adam smiled at his father. "And riding the Ponderosa might be just what Joe needs."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Shadows lay far and few between on the outskirts of Arrowhead Canyon. Thirsty trees cast meager scraps of shade, refuge for small insects and skinny lizards. Low-lying vegetation was sparse. Further into the canyon were boulders; towering clusters of stones, capable of blanketing patches of scorching sand with shade.

Joe was hot, but the horses were foremost on his mind. Wasting no time, he rode for the tallest, widest rocks and, satisfied with the breadth of the shadow they cast, unsaddled the horses and treated them each to a hatful of canteen water. He set his fire, cooked his grub, and ate his fill.

On an ordinary day, Joe would've relished the prospect of resting a bit in the shade. But as he sipped cool water, his thoughts drifted back to the ranch. They'd be fretting, especially Pa, and Joe had no doubt that worry had been building since early morning.

The note he'd left on the dining room table had been plain and simple. Someone had to be the bigger man and take on the responsibility of the grand swing. And during the previous night's discussion, Adam, Hoss, and Pa had left Joe out of the running.

 _Seems I'm the only one who thinks, no, the only one who knows I'm old enough to take care of myself._

With a final twist, Joe tightened the cap. _Mexico._ He tossed his canteen aside. _I believed everything Clay said._ Scooping up a handful of sand, Joe chucked it into the flames of his cooking fire. _My brother! Maybe I am_ _just a fool kid!_

He scooped more sand, and he shivered, staring as it sifted between his fingers. "Cooch," he said as the final grains fell free, "it's time to move on." Collecting his dishes in one hand, he stood and kicked more sand across the smoking campfire. "Beans and biscuits."

Late that afternoon, Joe reached South Bend, and he hastily shed his boots, socks, and sweat-soaked shirt. Cochise and Jasper made a beeline to the river's edge and before long, Joe stood at the water as well, his damp shirt hanging from a tree limb, his fishing line dangling from its pole. He whistled – loudly – and fussed with his rod, twisting it, gripping it with one hand and then the other, wanting the distraction to strangle the voices in his head.

They hadn't gone away, but they'd seemed muffled by the fresh air, changing landscape and most of all, the distance. But now, as he cast his line against the pristine, shiny surface, the voices grew stronger. Determined to silence the memories, he focused on nothing but catching his evening meal, and before long, he'd snagged his dinner and wasted no time preparing his meal.

The trout was flaky and flavorful, and Joe added a few freshly made pan biscuits and some canned peaches to round out the fare.

Those decisions had come easily, but now, as he stretched and relaxed on the ground, an uninvited voice whispered to him.

 _"_ _We're brothers, Joe. Just as soon as the roundup's over, we'll figure out where we want to go and we'll be on our way. Together."_

Joe bounded to his feet. **"** If that's how you felt, brother Clay, then why did you leave me behind?"

Cochise turned a watchful eye on Joe.

"Sorry, girl. I didn't mean to . . . I didn't want to . . . Aw, that seals it. We're movin' on. Just a couple hours more and we'll settle in for the night. Tomorrow's . . . well, it's another day."

Navigating by the stars had been a rite of passage for Joe, but a full moon can hypnotize even the most seasoned of cowboys. The night before, with the trail illuminated and the skies perfectly clear, he'd traveled farther than planned, leaving the barren landscape for the slowly greening pastures ahead, and that night, as the stars settled in the sky, he wasted no time before setting camp.

Despite nearly seventeen hours in the saddle, sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned, nodding off just three hours before dawn.

Now, as birdsong whispered amid the pines, Joe huffed and moaned.

Sitting up, he raked his hands through ruffled hair. A quick massage along the back of his neck ended with an unsightly yawn, and he squinted as he surveyed the blue morning sky. A warm breeze carried with it the sweet aroma of lupines, and Joe breathed it in deeply. As he exhaled, a voice invaded his serenity, and Joe shuddered.

 _"_ _Like having spring in the house all year long."_

Had Clay taken Joe's words as those of a little boy missing his mama? Had Joe behaved like a child when he'd quoted his father?

Without thinking, Joe reached for his shirt pocket, staying his hand along the outside of the fabric. Their mother's photograph, the one Joe had carried all those years, gone now. Gone with the brother he barely knew.

 _"_ _Why did you leave without me, Clay?"_

A simple enough question, one borne of fear and confusion. Had his father's words unsettled his brother? Chased him away from a life with family roots and stability? Had his father robbed him of his connection to his mother?

 _"_ _Just like I told your pa,"_ Clay had said _, "trouble's been following me all my life."_

Joe jumped up and snatched up his bedroll.

"And I suppose having your kid brother along would be nothing but more trouble!"

Roughly, Joe shook the pine needles from the bedding and hurriedly rolled it before securing it to the back of his saddle. Anger soared above sorrow.

"I didn't ask for another brother and I certainly don't need another brother. I've done just fine with the two I have!"

Moments later, he'd packed his things, saddled Cochise, and with Jasper in tow, started off toward the northeastern border of the Ponderosa. By the time the sun climbed to the center of the sky, Joe's angered determination had led him to locate and document the first three markers along the Ponderosa perimeter.

With his next stop more than eight miles away, hunger took hold. The shade from the pines offered respite, and he settled on a cool spot wide enough for himself and the horses. He opened his saddlebag and reached inside, surprised to find two stale biscuits.

 _Breakfast. Huh. I plumb forgot._

Shaking his head, he shoved the biscuits back inside and yanked out a spoon and a small tin. Propping himself against the trunk of a pine, he pried the lid from the can and wrinkled his nose.

 _Beans._

He ate slowly, doing his best to ignore the taste of his cold lunch while savoring the vast landscape. That afternoon, he'd perform two more marker checks and then begin the ten-mile ride to the first of four line shacks. Once there, repairs to the cabin and outlying corral could wait until morning. The thought brought a smile. With the voices silent for now, he looked forward to settling in on the line shack cot for a good night's sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Locating the third marker of the day should have been an easy task. Although Joe hadn't ridden the grand swing for several years, the details in his father's pocket ledger described, in some detail, where each marker lay.

But the ledger failed to mention that melting snows from the harsh winter had caused several landslides along the lake's edge, and after checking landmarks against what had been written, Joe came to the realization that the third marker - a chiseled stone inscribed with the letters "BCP" - lay buried beneath one of the rock piles.

After several hours, Joe was able to uncover the engraved stone, and exhausted, he recorded the date and time. Routinely, the perimeter checks took place every two years, and one of the requirements was to leave the markers in the most obvious condition possible. And so, with the remaining piles of rock still on either side of the marker, Joe gathered smaller stones of similar shape and size and constructed a corral of sorts encircling the engraved stone.

Satisfied with his work, he collected his tools, loaded them onto Jasper, and started off for the first of the perimeter line shacks. The work he'd done that afternoon had been in silence. No voices had spoken to him; no words had confused his thoughts.

Joe grinned. Maybe the change of routine was what he needed after all.

Riding toward the edge of the canyon, Joe felt lighter than he had in weeks. He sat straighter in his saddle, taking in the changing landscape as the last of the narrow areas of desert sands gave way to scrub brush, grass, and trees. Dust no longer tickled his nose, and the sweet scents of sage and pine filled the air. Sighing, he thought of the beauty still to come. A voice in his head made him regret that sigh.

 _"_ _I have places to go and things to see. You'd just get in my way."_ Clay's announcement had stung Joe's eyes, and the pain didn't lessen with the memory of that day. _"Will you get it through your head, Joe? I don't want you along. I don't need your family . . . and I don't need you!"_

Shaking his head, Joe closed his eyes and mashed his lips. He inhaled deeply, remembering his Hoss's recent advice. _"Ya gotta stop dwellin' on somethin' you wanna change but can't."_

Joe closed his eyes and settled into Cochise's rhythm. He willed his frustration to subside, breathing slowly, calmly, and when he opened his eyes just ahead of a fork in the road, he laughed at how close he'd come to missing the turn for the line shack. _Well, Hoss, it worked, but next time, I'll try it with my eyes open._ His smile lingered as he traveled left at the turn-off.

With so many of nature's distractions to enjoy, time passed quickly, and before long, Joe found himself in front of the first line shack on his grand swing of the Ponderosa.

As he rode toward the shack, pines no longer hindered the warming rays of the sun. The brightness of the clearing ahead was deceiving, and he shaded his eyes and looked to the sun in the sky. "Ha, not as late as I thought." Slowing the horses, he started for the small corral, taking note its disrepair; cutting replacements for the rotting rails could wait until morning.

Anxious to get inside, Joe dismounted, leaving the horses to graze in the sparse, early spring growth inside the enclosure. A brief cloud of dust emerged, and he brushed his trousers and the front of his jacket before reaching for his saddlebags. He'd flung the bags over his shoulder and grabbed hold of his rifle when a high-pitched screech startled him.

The shack.

Joe dropped the saddlebags, drew his pistol, and tucked himself flat against the outside wall of the cabin. Another scream, longer and more intense, frightened the horses, and for an instant, Joe questioned whether the crumbling corral fencing would hold.

Silently, he inched along, closer and closer to the wooden structure. Shattered glass dotted the ground beneath the front window, and he ducked below the opening and made his way to the front door. A rhythmic, brushing noise inside stole his breath.

Pistol in hand, he reached for the latch and slowly worked the handle. The sound continued, and he pressed gently against the door, cracking it open a mere two inches. The movement ceased, and Joe froze.

"You, in the shack!"

Joe counted to three; ample time for a reply.

"You're on Ponderosa property." He licked his lips and filled his lungs. "I've got a gun . . . I'm coming in."

Pressing the door with his shoulder, Joe crept inside. Eyes darting about the dim, one room shack, he searched unsuccessfully for the source of the now silent cries. Hazarding two more steps, he squinted left, peering into one dark corner of the room.

Nothing.

He turned, looking beyond the shadows.

Stillness.

Pivoting, Joe craned his neck to see around the small bureau.

No movement.

Had the screams come from outside the line shack after all?

Ever wary, Joe stepped again, scanning the floor along the back of the shack. A flash of light caught his eye. He stood, stiff, staring at a large tin can lying on its side.

"I know someone's in here. Come out where I can see you!"

His pulse pounded in his ears, but his voice belied his racing heart.

"Look, if you needed a place to stay, its all . . . What the -"

Once again, the threat made itself known. Joe spun around, facing the source of the rumbling growl. A fleeting smile tugged his cheeks.

"Well, what'd'ya know?" Sitting in the corner, his paws covered in flour, sat a frightened bear cub.

Joe's "inner Pa" spoke to him, and his smile faded quickly. He backed against the wall. Using his pistol, he parted the cabin window's dusty burlap curtains and whispered, "Where's your mama, little fella?" He looked outside, his eyes darting from the yard to the cub and back again.

While the size of the intruder was no real cause for alarm, the location of its mother was. Joe knew all too well that a female black bear in search of her cub spelled danger to man and horse alike, and he also recognized that a young cub rarely strayed from its fierce protector.

With the horses in the precarious corral and no way of knowing when the cub would once again call to its mother, Joe had a hasty choice to make.

The cub squirmed to its feet, and Joe jerked around, pistol aimed low. Waddling as it walked, the cub screeched again as it plodded across the room. Had Joe known the mother was nowhere to be found, he'd have chuckled at the fuzzy, lumbering animal. Instead, he turned his watch to the window, concentrating on any moving thing.

Cochise and Jasper showed no signs of distress as they grazed along the corral fence, but Joe knew that would change the instant a full grown bear came within sensing distance. He glanced back at the cub who busied itself with pawing the large tin can, chasing it as it bumped into furniture and walls, and pouncing against it with the bravado of a creature three times its size. _Brave little thing, aren't you? It's no wonder you managed to get away from-your mama!_

The moan was low and brief. From the window, Joe strained his eyes, searching the grounds for the approaching bear. In the yard, the snap and crack of footfall against dried brush drew his attention.

"The horses!"

Cochise and Jasper bristled, their muscles tense, ready for flight.

Inside, the cub, oblivious to everything but the shiny metal can, continued its game of roll and chase, and Joe bounded to the corner of the room and the shelves that held the stores in the line shack. He holstered his gun, reached for the topmost ledge, and grabbed three shiny cans of peaches.

"All right, little fella. Let's hope you like these little cans as much as you like that big one."

He bent down and scraped the floor with one of the tins. Immediately, the cub abandoned its game and timidly started toward the peach can. "That's it. Come see the shiny can." Joe waited, letting the cub move closer.

Outside, Cochise snorted. Time was running out. Joe took a deep breath. "This had better work. I don't want to shoot your mama, but it's a long walk back to the Ponderosa."

Joe shook the can from side to side, sunlight bouncing off its surface. The bear butted its nose against the can. "You want it?" Joe rolled the peaches toward the open door. "Go get it."

The can spun over and over, traveling just three feet before coming to a stop at a depression in the floorboards. The cub loped behind, jumping on the can then twisting onto its side.

"Let's try that again."

Joe sent the second tin in motion, aiming again for the open door. The peaches rolled evenly, and the cub sprang into action, following the new toy out into the yard. Joe rushed forward and grabbed the door. As he closed it, he caught sight of the mother bear ambling into the clearing, her cub forsaking its prey for the reunion at hand. In the seconds it took Joe to bolt the door and make his way to the window, mother and baby were well on their way into the dense pines on the hill.

Joe relaxed against the wall, closed his eyes, puffed his cheeks, and whistled softly. He couldn't help but chuckle, and when he opened his eyes, for the first time since arriving at the line shack, he assessed its condition. His smile slid into a scowl - he knew he'd be spending the next two days making repairs inside and out.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The first of six line shacks on Joe's grand swing had proved more challenging than expected. In four days' time, the roof had been patched and the chimney cleared of debris. Corral posts stood strengthened or replaced, the shattered window had been boarded, and the cabin's shelves were now stocked for future visits. Knowing the shack would be used as the winter outpost for the northeast range, Joe had felled an appropriate pine, stripped its loose bark, chopped the logs, and stacked the wood against the side of the shack. He'd even gathered the thin strips of kindling and propped them in a bucket near the line shack's fireplace.

The days of hard labor had silenced the voices, but sleeping had been difficult; it engulfed him in foggy spurts. Thoughts of the remaining stops on his swing, the daily running of the ranch back home, and the brother who'd left him behind haunted his dreams.

Over the course of his stay, necessity had lured Joe to the river on several occasions. The abundance of trout kept his belly full, and each evening before dusk, the river's cool, clear water rid him of sawdust, pitch, and sweat.

On his final morning at the cabin, Joe's muscles spoke of all he'd accomplished. He'd considered heading out on an empty stomach, but the prospect of feasting as he rode on a breakfast of hardtack made him groan more than did the ache in his back. As he stood, his back stiff from roofing repairs, and moving slowly, he lit the small cast iron stove and waited patiently for the heat to rise. Satisfied with the flames, he dropped five thick slices of fatback into the cold, black skillet.

As his breakfast spattered and sizzled, Joe took stock of the shack. The Cartwrights were proud of the condition of their line shacks, and the hands sent out to mend fences, gather wandering cattle, and survey the damage from weather could count on them being well-stocked and in good repair. After breakfast, Joe would ride on knowing he'd left the shack "Cartwright ready."

By midday, Joe had covered more than ten miles and logged sightings of the next two markers. His memory told him the next shack lay to the south, just beyond an open pasture framed on one side by some recently-planted pines. He dismounted and squinted into the distance. Something didn't look right.

Was it another case of extreme winter weather that had altered the landscape? Or was his memory clouded by time and the events of the past few months?

Hands on his hips, Joe sighed. He slipped off his hat, ruffled his hair, and slapped the hat back onto his head.

"Guess it's time for a map, eh Cooch?"

Joe had to search for the small, folded square. Perhaps Adam was right – Joe was not an organized packer.

Reaching deep into the fourth saddlebag, he felt the familiar texture of the thick paper, and he smiled as he drew it out and quickly opened it, spreading it against Cochise's side.

"Hm. Looks like we're in the right place, after all. Those trees Pa had planted last fall sure have grown. Didn't expect them to be quite that tall after one season."

He folded the map, tucked it away, and double-checked the reins that tethered Jasper to Cochise. The pasture ahead glistened, the winter run-off and early spring rains fed the low-lying acreage, and caution was foremost in his mind as he crossed to the other side. The last thing he needed, next to an angry, mother bear, was to guide his horses into the deepest part of the mire.

Leading Cochise and Jasper across the pasture was tedious. Each step held the threat of losing a boot to the suction of the sludge. The horses seemed to share Joe's misgivings, and they raised their legs higher than necessary with every step.

Midway through the clearing, the mud thinned, and Joe picked up his pace. As he walked, he studied the ground ahead, raising his eyes from time to time to gage the remaining distance. Each footstep brought moist, slurping sounds. His boots no longer sunk into the mire, but instead, seemed caught in a tight suction along the soupy ground.

Joe smiled, recalling numerous times he and Hoss had found ways to enjoy the early spring thaw, playing all sorts of games in the mud and, to the dismay of Adam, Pa, and especially Hop Sing, tracking the mess into the house just in time for dinner.

Reflecting on more innocent times, Joe's mood lightened. One memory led to another, and another, and the young voices of his brothers and himself soon filled his head. _How did Pa survive our antics_ _?_

He glanced ahead, pleased to see his trek through the marsh was nearly over, and his smile widened as he remembered hearing the story of the day Adam and Hoss presented Hop Sing with six freshly-patted mud pies and demanded he serve them for dinner that evening. Joe chuckled aloud.

"Maybe that's why Pa's hair was gray even before I came along!"

As he neared the border of the pasture, Joe tilted his head upward. Some of his earliest memories were of standing amid the Ponderosa pines, feet planted firmly on the soil, his eyes shaded with one small hand as he gazed at the treetops against the clear, blue sky. On one such occasion, Adam had come upon Joe, settled in at his side, and gazed upward with squinted eyes along with his little brother.

"What do you see, Little Joe?" Adam had asked.

"Trees," Joe replied.

Adam had stared a moment longer, then turned his attention to his little brother. He scrunched his mouth and scratched at the side of his neck.

"What's so special about those particular trees?"

"Pa says all our trees is special. Even them 'ticular trees."

Adam smiled. "Pa's right, little brother."

"I know that, Adam. Pa's always right. And he says the tops of them trees used to be all the way down here where we are now."

"That's right."

"And now, they're pert near touchin' the sky."

"That, they are."

The brothers stood in silence, eyes shaded, gazing at the waving tree tops.

"Adam, you reckon them trees is happy?"

Adam crouched next to Joe. "I think a tree is meant to grow tall and strong, always aiming for the sky. And those trees have surely done just that. So, yes, I think those trees are happy."

Joe nodded. "I think those trees was happy all along. They just looked at the other trees around and did what they was doin'. They kept growin' and growin', just like you, me, and Hoss."

"You may be right, Little Joe."

"I am."

Adam chuckled.

"I don't think they're as happy as me, though."

"You don't? Why's that?"

"'Cause I got Pa and you and Hoss and Hop Sing and my pony . . . Oh, and Mama, too!"

Joe reined Cochise to a stop, and his memories shifted. _I had Mama._ He shivered. His boots settled into the soggy pasture surface. _I don't ask Pa. It still hurts him. But Hoss tells me things, what he remembers. I have memories, glimpses, the sound of her voice._

Joe closed his eyes. _All Clay has is a picture._ Time stood still as Joe clung to the image of his mother. "Clay took my picture." His eyes burned. "Why didn't he take me?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 _Wet leather is frustrating._

Joe pulled and twisted and yanked and wriggled, and when his boot finally surrendered, he chucked it against the trunk of a pine. His sock was soaked, but it wasn't the hole in his boot that provoked his anger. He couldn't stop wondering if he'd ever again be able to think of his mother without thinking of Clay.

Tugging at the woolen sock, his foot finally slid free. He snorted—wet feet were just another irritation. At least he carried an extra pair of boots in his pack, handy, just like his father had taught him. But that admission only sparked his anger all over again. Balling the sock, he hurled it toward the discarded boot then ruffled his hair.

"I never had a pa to teach me things," Clay had said. "You've spent your life surrounded by this . . . this Ponderosa and the men who protect it. Me? I learned by taking chances and making mistakes. And some of those mistakes . . . well, they were close calls. I didn't have people, family, around to keep an eye on me or out for me. I've got the scars to prove it."

Joe bristled. "Proof!" The declaration shattered the afternoon stillness. "It was Adam who convinced Pa he needed proof that Clay was who he claimed to be."

Joe seized his other boot and wrenched it free. "All of them, constantly watching Clay, waiting for him to mess up, or for him to say something that would prove him unworthy of being Marie Cartwright's firstborn son."

Working to free his other sock, Joe's frustration swelled. "Watching Clay's every move, looking for some behavior undeserving of a place on the Ponderosa. Wondering when he'd say or do something that would get me into trouble. I can't really blame him for wanting to rid himself of living up to the so-called Cartwright standards."

He stared at the damp sock dangling from his fingertips. "But I didn't expect him to . . ." He watched the sock fall to the ground. "He up and left," Joe huffed. "Left the ranch . . . Left me."

Joe drew his knees to his chest and dropped his forehead against his legs. He sighed, shivering slightly as a breeze weaved a path through the trees. _Clay said we were gonna be together, promised we'd go places, get to know one another, and . . . and meet pretty little gals, and . . . and see all sorts of—_

"Smoke!"

Joe sprung to his feet. Shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, he turned full circles, scanning the horizon, his breathing quickened by the thought of fire on the Ponderosa.

He dashed barefoot into the pasture, clear of the towering trees, and staggered here and there, shielding his upturned eyes, surveying the distance for any sign of fire. He stopped, dizzied by his search, and there he stood, unshod and ankle-deep in the thick, muddy grass. No spreading flames, no rising pillar of smoke, not even a patch of hazy gray to be seen.

"What the . . .? The next line shack?"

He adjusted his hat and scratched at the side of his neck. "Nah, even if someone was in there, it's too far off." He started back, his toes sinking in the sludge with each step. "Dadburned mud. Now my socks, boots, and feet are covered in it."

The mud gave way to drier ground, and soon Joe reached the horses and his discarded footwear. He rifled through the saddlebags for a clean pair of socks before opening a full canteen to bathe his feet. As he washed, he couldn't help but wonder about the source of the ashy-scented mountain air. _Must be a trapper or a homesteader passing through. Maybe._ Once his feet were fully dressed, Joe took a final look around. The acrid smell ushered in by the breeze had moved on in the same manner, but Joe couldn't shake his rancher's concern. He'd keep his eyes sharp and his nose on alert.

"Well, Cooch, it's time you and me and ole Jasper get a move on. Unless we run into another rock slide, more mud, or whoever started that fire, we should make the next line shack in about three hours."

The contentment of his eight-mile journey had settled Joe's nerves. Soaring pines and seldom-traveled trails spoke to his nature, something his father had acknowledged when Joe was no more than a young boy of six or seven.

Joe smiled at the dense forest around him, and he nodded in silent approval of his father's philosophy – for every tree we cut, we plant another in its place. He'd always adhered to that philosophy; his father's word was seldom questioned. But in this case, he and his brothers agreed with their father in the belief that their land be treated with its due respect.

As he rode closer to the next line shack on his swing, he detected the faint remnants of a familiar scent. Smoke.

As the nearly hidden trail curved, Joe drew his gun. Pulling on Jasper's reins, he leaned sharply to the left and tossed the reins into the lowest branches of a sage bush. The pack horse would welcome the rest as he and Cochise rode closer.

Skirting the forest edge, Joe's eyes and ears were on alert. _No wagon. No horse._ With a tug of the reins, Cochise veered left, then traveled closer to the slight clearing ahead. _Must've been someone here earlier. A breakfast fire, maybe._

He trained his eyes on the ground, guiding Cochise to the rear of the shack. _No tracks back here, either._ Coming full circle, he led Cochise back to Jasper's side and slipped from the saddle to gather his reins. _Could be someone on foot. Could be—_

"Little Little Joe Cartwright! Well, I'll be!"

In one swift pass, Joe spun to his right and raised his gun. Staring at the figure standing in the open, his brows knotted together.

"Coonskin?" Slowly, a smile blossomed on Joe's lips. "Coonskin Tully." He slipped his gun into his holster. "Who're you callin' 'little', you dishonest, grubby, moonshine-suckin' varmint! So, you're the one fillin' the hills with cooking fire smoke!"

"Reckon not, **little** Little Joe. I ain't et but day-old fatback 'n' cold beans today."

Joe glanced at the line shack. "Then you haven't been staying in the shack?"

The tall, unkempt man grinned and shook his head, his long hair flopping to and fro. "Little Little Joe, you know dang well since my Emmaline passed, I ain't took my slumber indoors nary a once! Why sleepin' 'neath the heavens keeps Emm . . . I ain't slept in the shack."

Joe smiled up at Coonskin and eased the crimp in the back of his neck.

The old trapper cleared his throat. "Can't say I've done much the same since Emmaline . . ." He turned his head and reached for his canteen.

Joe rested his hand against his pistol. "Coonskin, if you haven't lit a fire, then were did the smoke come from?"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Coonskin stood peering from behind the cover of a thick pine trunk. Joe had insisted he take cover until the shack had been opened and deemed safe. With a final nod to the old man, Joe opened the door, his gun drawn.

In the late afternoon sun, the one room cabin, though slightly larger than the one the bear cub had invaded, harbored very little in the way of hiding places, and soon, Joe reappeared in the doorway and beckoned Coonskin inside.

Felton C. Tully, late in life known as Coonskin Tully, and his wife had befriended Ben Cartwright and his sons, Adam and Hoss, when they'd arrived in the adolescent settlement that would become Virginia City. The Tullys were what Ben referred to as 'good, simple folk' – educated by life's lessons, appreciative of a hard day's work, and pure of heart. But the thing Ben admired most was their unbending love for one another.

Ben had arrived at the mining settlement weary of travel, unsure of his next step, and out of provisions. He'd set up camp alongside his covered wagon on the outskirts of town, and the Tullys, bearing a bucket of milk, freshly baked biscuits, and a pot of seasoned, antelope stew, were the first people to approach the newcomers. Over the course of the evening, they were joined by the fledgling town's soon-to-be sheriff, the proprietor of the second largest mercantile on the muddied, rutted single street, and an eager minister anxious to add parishioners to his newly established Sunday services.

Having separated from the wagon train weeks before, Ben relished the company, and the conversation soon led to a dinner invitation the following evening, a job at Dillon's Feed and Grain, and the proposal that led to a lifelong friendship between the Tullys and the Cartwrights.

Unable to bear children of her own, Coonskin's wife, Emmaline, had eagerly offered to care for six-year-old Adam and his toddler brother, Hoss, while Ben worked at the local store. Emmaline, a sweet yet firm woman, would become the nearest thing to a mother that the boys had had since the tragic death of Inger Cartwright.

Coonskin's crotchety manner was nothing but bravado, and Adam soon followed his father's instincts, seeing past the gruff exterior and into the soul of the decent, fair-minded man.

For years, the Tullys and Cartwrights embodied the true meaning of the word 'friendship', and when Ben returned from New Orleans with his new, young bride, Marie, both Coonskin and Emmaline welcomed Marie like a long lost daughter. Less than two years later, Joseph Francis Cartwright was born.

Marie leaned on Emmaline for advice, and the bond between the women deepened. In the months that followed, Emmaline often spent more hours a day on the Ponderosa than she did in her own modest cabin.

As Ben's holdings grew, the Tullys' remained the same. But neither man put finances before friendship, and as the Cartwright boys matured, the Tullys were always close by.

When Coonskin found time away from his meager silver claim, he would join Emmaline on her visits to the Ponderosa. Known to all yet denied by Coonskin, the frequent banter between he and Hop Sing, hired shortly before Ben had traveled to New Orleans, became the source of many an enjoyable evening in the Cartwright home.

On many occasions, it was Little Joe who answered the knock on the impressive, pine door. The young boy, his wide, green eyes staring up at the man, was always taken with the towering, lanky presence waiting to be welcomed.

Coonskin's loving wife, Emmaline, had often joked that her husband's trousers required no more than one belt loop. Measuring in at six-feet-six inches, he'd been tall and thin for as long as he could remember. His height and his sense of humor, coupled with young Joe's reaction, are what prompted Coonskin's nickname for Joe, and now, as he stood in the line shack doorway watching the old trapper's approach, Joe couldn't help but smile.

"You sure you haven't been stayin' here, Coonskin?"

The old man stopped in his tracks, cocked his head, and rubbed his beard. "Little Little Joe, are ya daft? I recollect not more'n two minutes ago tellin' ya I ain't been in this here shack."

"All right, all right." Joe smiled at the old man. "Are you gonna stand there scratchin' that possum on your face or are you comin' in?"

Coonskin pondered the question then pointed at Joe. "I reckon I'm comin' inside."

Joe nodded, turned, and walked into the center of the room. "I just don't understand it," he said loudly. "There's no food missing, but the marks in the dust here and here prove the table's been used. The wood bin's stacked and full, but that wood's too fresh, can't have been here since last fall. And from the smell in here, I'd swear there's been a fire, maybe even this morning."

"Fatback."

"Yeah, I smell it, too." Joe turned to face the opposite wall. "The bed's made up real fine. Hoss was the last one up here, late September, I think it was, and there's no way he made a bed like that. I think-"

"I think ya got yourself a tidy squatter."

"I think you're right." Joe shrugged. "Nothing's missing; nothing's broken. In fact, the place looks-wait, what's this?" Joe bent down and picked up two small, round black objects.

Coonskin leaned in, squinted his eyes, and sniffed. "Appears your squatter's got a hankerin' for horehound."

"Sure does."

"'Tweren't Hoss. That boy's got a powerful sweet tooth. Has since the day I met him, but he don't like horehound." Coonskin dropped into the chair next to the table and cackled. "Ain't to ev'ry one's likin', what with that bitterness. Oh, the faces that boy made when Emmaline give him his first taste." His eyes sparkled with tears.

Joe smiled and quickly looked away. He had no real memories of Emmaline Tully; just the stories he'd heard from his father and brothers, and the fact that, even after all these years, Coonskin had only to think of her and their love flooded his heart and spilled from his lonely eyes.

"Now, don't you fret, little Little Joe," Coonskin said, his voice strong and steady.

Joe turned back to him.

"I ain't never been one ta deny my Emmaline my true feelin's, even now." His voice softened. "She's with me ev'ry day 'n' all through the night 'n' I wouldn't have it no other way."

Coonskin paused, and Joe wished his father was there. Pa always knew the right things to say.

Coonskin pondered a moment longer, then slapped his thighs and sprang to his feet shouting. "I told ya she's always with me!"

Startled, Joe twitched and took a few steps backward.

"Horehound!"

Joe started again.

"Emmaline always had a hankerin' for sweetnin' just like your brother, Hoss. But Emmaline, bless her heart, fancied horehound." His eyes shimmered. "'N' over the years, I reckon I accustomed myself ta the taste."

Joe waited patiently.

"'Bout a month ago . . . No, I gather it was closer ta two. Must've been the middle o' March—still plenty o' snow up on the ridge, but lots o' critters wakin' up ta celebrate the end o' winter. Well, I was down near Wolf Run, see, 'n' I come upon a gal wearin' a black 'n' white fur the likes o' which I ain't never seen."

"Black and white? She was wearing skunk?"

Coonskin wrinkled his nose. "No, boy, not skunk. Why, a body'd need a passel o' them critters to sew a jacket like that gal's."

"If it wasn't skunk, then wha-Wait, the only black and white animal big enough to—wait! Did you say 'a gal'?"

"Yep. 'N' a right perty one, she was at that!"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Over the past few months, on three separate occasions, she'd made the same journey to Virginia City for supplies. Each visit took her along elaborate routes— she'd always been wary of being found out before all the pieces came together. Each time in town, she'd patronized a different mercantile. Her story, if and when the proprietors inquired, always had the same beginning—she was a loner, just passing through on her way to . . . And that's where the story varied. California, Iowa, Texas. If the shopkeepers were to exchange details, none of them would ever have suspected the young lady 'just passing through' during the winter months was the same one the others had seen. Or would they? She had no idea just how small Virginia City really was.

For the better part of three years, since her search began and she'd begun the journey, she'd been successful at hiding her identity, watching strangers from the shadows, listening for the names of people she didn't even know. The only town she'd known lay more than 400 miles to the east, and the people there whom she called friends were never far from her thoughts.

She was surprised to feel a longing for the simple things that had once filled her days and occupied her evenings. For as long as she could remember, she'd enjoyed quilting, gaining pleasure with each tiny stitch, connecting pieces that held memories.

Quilts were puzzles, and she took pride in her designs— each patch seemed to embrace a past of journey of its own. She knew which colors should lay side by side, and she delighted when the patterns complimented one another. Over the years, these blankets earned her money, gained her the respect of the ladies in her hometown, and unknowingly encouraged her lust for sorting through the pieces of her past.

It had been months since she'd felt the coolness of a thin needle between her fingers; months since she'd laid out scraps provided by a customer - pieces of a worn baby blanket, a muslin shirt too small for a growing young man, the ruffle from a yellowing wedding dress.

On each visit to Virginia City, she'd considered adding fabric, thread, and needles to her supply list, but her ready cash was finite, and she couldn't risk sending a wire or a transfer of funds to a Virginia City bank.

Always a friendly person, she enjoyed conversation and gatherings, and that day, in the bustling, early afternoon hours, she worried she'd never again find a comfortable place in a town, in a community, in a family.

Two pounds of flour, a tin of coffee, sugar in a small sack, a can of lard, three bags of beans, and pocketful of candies did nothing to weigh down her horse, yet her pace was slow and steady. This supply run had been ordinary, but as she lifted her face to the warmth of the sun, she was reminded of her encounter with a stranger in the woods two months ago. The chance meeting still gave her pause . . .

The coyotes' howls the night before had startled her from her sleep. Visions of a deer or antelope struggling to escape made her shiver, but as the eerie, melodious yips eventually faded, they settled her, gave her peace. Nature seemed drawn to the inevitable—survival of the strong—and she'd never felt more akin to it than she had since setting foot in the mountains surrounding Virginia City.

Unable to get back to sleep, she'd risen, dressed, and slipped a biscuit and a length of jerky into the pocket of her shirt. She smiled as her finger skimmed the fabric. Her grandfather had delighted in having his initial embroidered on the left chest pocket of his shirt. His pride in his granddaughter's talents was never ending. And today, she wore the first shirt of many she'd sewn for him over the years.

Starting out the door, she fought and conquered the sadness of missing the man who'd been not only grandfather, but both father and mother to her for as long as she could recall.

Dawn carried with it a deceivingly clear, blue sky. The rush of bitter air made her reach for her wrap, a black and white fur. Grandfather's wolverine coat was roomy, to say the least, and as she ran her fingertips across the fur, she felt safe, embraced by years of memories. But as she left the cabin and set off on an early morning walk, layer upon layer, those memories yielded to ones far less comforting.

"Grandfather loved me," she thought as she set off across the way. "As sure as the sun will rise and the moon offer respite, he loved me. But there were lies. Not the kind of lies you conjure to avoid hurting someone's feelings or the ones you craft to persuade a child for their own benefit. There were lies that defy the definition of love, of my definition of love."

The answers were nearby; she felt it with every passing day. But could she forgive the lies— the honest intentions—of loved ones now gone? If not, she was truly alone in this world.

In front of her, a dark gray shadow swept across the snow. Shielding her eyes, she quickly spotted an eagle soaring overhead. She stood in the silence, tracking the bird as it set its sights on a distant peak, and she sighed when it swooped and disappeared into the dense blanket of mountain fog.

 _One purpose in life. Survival._

She pulled her coat together at the neck and started on again. The pristine snow crunched and crackled with each step, and when she neared some brown clumps that formed a thicket, she saw the faint imprints of rabbit tracks, each one barely breaking the frozen surface.

 _Banded together in this harsh season, always a struggle for food and warmth. Together, there's hope. Alone . . ._

She stopped, aware for the first time of birdsong in the distance. Spring was extending open fists toward the territory, each one filled with bits of warmth and rays of sunshine. Those fists would offer a new beginning for the strongest, the winter survivors, yet the promise of spring carried with it a memorial for the unfortunate, for those left behind.

 _I've come this far, I can't stop now. Seasons upon seasons of searching, digging for clues, finding the courage to leave home. So many questions and still, very few answers._

She took one step, then another, and soon her pace quickened, matching the confusion and anger the memories conjured.

 _Lies from those who loved me. Deceitful people along the way, greedy, cruel, evil. So many out for themselves, compassion driven from them by life's twists and turns._

Approaching the edge of the meadow, she stared at the mountainside, eyes fixed on the pines climbing the landscape.

 _And a few good ones. But even so, the good—and the bad—led me here._

The answers were nearby; she felt it with every passing day, but would answers be enough to forgive the lies—the honest intentions—of those now gone? If not, she was truly alone in this world.

"Well, hello there, mister."

The deep voice started her.

"Oh," he said, tipping his weathered hat, "beggin' your pardon, I mean, ma'am. I reckon I didn't 'spect ta see hide nor hair o' anything on two legs, let alone a gal!"

"Stay back." She slipped her hand into her empty coat pocket. "I've got a gun and I'll use it."

The old man raised his hands. "Ain't no need for a shootin' iron, ma'am." He paused, then grinned. "And if ya don't mind me sayin', if you're totin' a pistol under all that fur, it ain't gonna do ya much good with the likes of most of the two-legged varmints roamin' these mountains."

Flustered, she fumbled with her rope belt, unable to undo the knot. "Well, you just stay back, you hear me? I . . . I do have a . . . a gun, and-"

"Little gal, ain't no worry ta fetch out a gun. Even one ya ain't got." He smiled sympathetically and lowered his hands. "I ain't a body to hurt no one, 'specially a gal. Name's Tully. Felton C. Tully. But you can call me Coonskin."

Had he appeared out of nowhere, or had she been so caught up in her thoughts that she'd missed him moving toward her? He'd frightened her, but that initial fear was dwindling—there was something about the old trapper that put her at ease.

 _Honest. His eyes are honest. But then, Grandfather's were, too._ "You're a trapper?"

"That's right, ma'am. Been one ever since I lost my Emmaline."

Tightness gripped her throat as she watched the man's eyes fill with tears. _He loved her, still does. He wasn't a loner before._

"Iffn ya don't mind my askin', you out here all alone, ma'am? This can be a mighty dangerous place, what with critters settin' out after a bitter winter. You'd be s'pprised how diff'rent some of 'em act when they're starvin'."

"I, uh, I have a cabin," she said, pointing east, "just down the way." _Oh, that was brilliant. He seems nice enough, but did you have to tell him you're squatting in someone's line shack?_

She withdrew the offending arm and shoved her hand into her pocket. "It's really far . . . and down the way, and I think I should get back there. So, if you'll excuse me-"

"You hungry, ma'am? You got food really far down the way?"

 _He knows I'm not telling him everything. But he cares that I might be hungry. I wonder . . . Is he hungry?_ "I have what I need, thank you."

She thought of the food in her shirt pocket. "I happen to have a biscuit and some jerky. If you need it, I'd be more than happy for you to have it."

The man laughed. "Well, if that don't beat all. Appears we're both willin' ta share what we're fortunate ta have. Ma'am, I have plenty of food at my place, but I do thank ya for the off'rin'. In fact, my mule's tied over yonder, and she's loaded with supplies. I'm on my way back ta camp. Just yesterday, I made it ta Virginia City to stock up. Even got me some sweetnin'."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of candy. "Care for a piece o' horehound? Some folks ain't fond o' the taste, but it was my Emmaline's favorite, 'n' I can't seem ta step out of the mercantile without some."

Suddenly, she realized she hadn't felt this much at ease in a very long time. Nodding, she took one piece of the candy from Coonskin's palm. "Thank you, sir. Horehound is one of my favorites. My grandfather always had some at hand."

Coonskin smiled down at the girl. "You're grandpa's a right smart man, ma'am."

"Yes, yes he was."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Joe scratched at his neck. "So, you came upon a girl in the snow, in the middle of nowhere, and you know enough about her grandfather to make a judgment, but you never asked the girl her name?"

Coonskin nodded.

"Never asked where she was staying, where she was headed?"

Coonskin shrugged. "'Tweren't my business."

Joe started to speak, thought better of it, and returned Coonskin's shrug. "Seems like I've found our squatter."

"Your 'tidy' squatter. But you ain't found her," Coonskin added as he lowered himself onto the shack's cot. "Why, it was two months ago I layed eyes on that little gal, 'n' I was three or four miles up yonder when I come across her. Could be she was comin' from any direction or goin' any which-a-way. And there's one more thing," he said as he rubbed an aching muscle in his knee. "A perty gal with a hankerin' for horehound ain't enough for a jury, not that any upstandin' jury'd be makin' a call on a squatter—even a tidy one."

"You've got a point," Joe said as he sank into a hard, wooden chair.

"Reckon I got three, points that is."

Once again, Joe swallowed the comment on the tip of his tongue. He scrunched his lips and shook his head.

"If there ain't nothin' missin' 'n' no harm's been done, what diff'rence is it if some gal's been takin' shelter from the snow 'n' cold?"

Joe leaned back, tilting the chair onto two legs. "Coonskin, if it was a man that was doing the shelterin', I'd say he was welcome to whatever he needed to beat the winter snows and then send him on his way. But a girl—a pretty, young girl . . . You did say she's pretty, didn't you?"

"Can't recollect if I did or not."

Scratching his forehead, Joe asked, "Well, is she?"

"Is she what?"

Joe righted his chair. "Is she pretty?"

"Right so."

"And young?"

"Well, now, whether a body's young 'r not's a matter of perspective."

"Huh?"

Coonskin settled back against the wall, his hands clasped behind his neck. "Well, I 'spect I'd call any gal under fifty-five young."

"Fifty-five?"

"That's right. If Emmaline 'n' me'd been blessed with . . . Well, let's just say I'm old enough to be pa to a woman of fifty-five or younger."

Joe rested his elbows on his thighs and laced his fingers together. "How old do you figure this girl is?"

Coonskin twisted his mouth from side to side. "Eighteen, maybe twenty."

"And she's pretty. The jury remembers, you did say that."

"Right perty's what I said."

Joe whistled.

"'N' not afeared to be out on her own. 'N' smart."

"What makes you say that?"

Coonskin maneuvered himself to the edge of the mattress. "Knew how to git around in snowshoes, in the freeze of the mornin', had herself wrapped in a wolverine coat, 'n' she had the sense to keep quiet to a stranger about where she was stayin'."

"I see your point-your three points." Joe expected a chuckle from his old friend, but instead, he watched as Coonskin's eyes glistened yet again.

"Four."

"What?"

"Four points." He brushed a tear from his cheek. "I forgot one. It's a real smart gal that's got a fondness for horehound."

Joe's curiosity was not easily stifled, but his affection for Coonskin helped steer the conversation away from the young girl and her kinship to horehound candy and onto the notion of the need for supper. If Joe's thinking was right, the girl could show up at any moment, but as Coonskin had pointed out, there was no proof that she was in fact the line shack squatter.

After a meal of fatback, freshly picked blackberries, beans and seasoned wild greens—Coonskin's own recipe—the two settled in for an evening of tales and family memories. The topics ushered away thoughts of the girl, but they opened the door to Joe's feelings of late.

Seated on the floor, the crackling fire warming the cool, spring night, Joe listened as Coonskin recounted the afternoon he'd first met Marie Cartwright. Although Joe had heard the story several times, from his father, his oldest brother, Adam, and twice from Coonskin, himself, he never tired of it. He savored the descriptions of his mother, her contagious smile, the fluid way she moved, her energetic personality, and most of all, the fact that she'd said goodbye to a life of fine clothing, fancy fare, and endless socializing to live in the wilderness, the wife of an upcoming rancher, a man she clearly adored.

"I tell you, boy," Coonskin's gaze drifted toward the fireplace, and he smiled wistfully, "Marie was a sight the likes o' which most o' us had never seen b'fore."

Joe's eyes followed, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite see the images painted amid the flames.

"Fact is I ain't ever seen the likes since."

Joe longed for a vision, a flicker among the peaks and dancing, red-orange ribbons. And he longed for the photograph now in his brother Clay's pocket.

"Thing was," Coonskin continued, " Marie knew how folks took to her looks, 'n' maybe it mattered some in that swanky New Orleans gamblin' hall, but here," Coonskin's attention shifted to his young friend, "here in Virginia City, your ma wanted nothin' more than bein' a wife to your pa 'n' a ma to your brothers. And you," he blushed, his eyes sparkling, "when the time came."

Nodding, Joe tossed a length of kindling into the fire. Flames enveloped the stick, and it skidded along a large piece of burning wood and between two others, disappearing into the hollow below. He stared, the handle of his coffee cup clutched tightly in his fingers. The movement around him registered, but still, he stared. His mind went blank, yet it seemed crowded with thoughts screaming with accusations and begging for answers.

His eyes were dry. Blinking no longer came without command and the demons grew louder in his mind. _If she'd known the truth about Clay, known he hadn't died, would I even exist? Would he have been her only child? Would she and Pa . . ._

Joe's jaw tensed. _And if she'd found out about Clay years later, what would she have done? Would she have searched for her son, her first born?_

"Where are ya, boy?"

Joe hauled his thoughts toward the intruding voice.

"Boy? You all right?"

"Huh?" Joe looked up at the old trapper.

Coonskin stood there, a coffee pot in his hand. "I asked if ya want a splash more coffee."

Joe's focus went back to the flames. "No, no thanks."

Coonskin sat down slowly, rested the pot on the hearth, and crossed his legs. "I didn't mean to offer up a sadness, boy. Fact is," he said as he ignored Joe's reply, adding coffee to his empty cup, "I ain't ever known recollectin' your ma to do anything but put a smile on your face 'n' conjure up a heap o' questions."

Absentmindedly, Joe drew his cup to his lips.

"It's a might hot."

Awareness crashed in on Joe in an instant. He gawked at the cup, then turned to Coonskin and, with a half-hearted smile, nodded. "I guess I went off to . . . somewhere."

Coonskin tilted his head and squinted his left eye. "If you're up for sharin' what's ailin' ya, I'm of a mind ta listen."

Joe glanced back at the fire. The ballet of flames held no answers, no whispers of advice, no clear path to follow—if there was a path.

He blew out a sigh, wishing at that moment that Coonskin and his pa weren't quite so much alike.

"I'm not my mother's only child," Joe said softly.

Coonskin's nod was subtle. "The first son, gone to the angels as a babe. Such sadness."

"Wait, you knew?"

Another slight nod. "Marie shared her grief with my Emmaline. That's a hurt that stays with a soul."

"Yeah, I guess it does. But, what you don't know is, the baby didn't die."

"What's that you say, little Little Joe?"

"They lied to my mother. The baby didn't die. In fact, he-"

"Didja hear tha-"

"Sh." Joe scurried on all fours to the window adjacent to the shack's only door, while Coonskin tucked himself between the table and the iron stove. Swiftly and silently, Joe drew his pistol.

Rising up on his knees, Joe hazarded a peek through the corner of the window. Clouds had settled in the night sky, and in the direction of the snap and crack they'd both heard, Joe saw nothing but blackness. He dropped back down.

Coonskin cocked his head—his advanced age had done nothing to muffle his hearing. Silently, he mouthed what Joe was already considering. Bear? Coyote?

His pulse racing, Joe shrugged and waited, expecting the door's latch to slide from the outside. As seconds ticked by, the stillness continued, and several minutes later, Joe and Coonskin relaxed against the floor.

"The notion of that little gal's got you jumpin' out o' your skin, boy."

"Me? You haven't moved that fast since I put that crawdad in your tea at the church Sunday social!"

Coonskin smirked. "You better watch your manners, boy. I may be old, but I got a lot o' fight left these here bones."

Joe giggled. "That you do, Coonskin. That you do."

Quickly, Coonskin returned to his seat, and staring at Joe, waited for the rest of Marie's long lost son's tale to unfold. When the waiting became tiresome, he sat forward on the chair and spoke. "Seems to me you ain't ready to unburden, little Little Joe. Might be that's for the best. Sometimes, a man needs ta ponder some, sort things out 'n' line 'em up for a real, slow looksee b'fore he's ready ta shed what ails him."

Joe looked away, clenching his drawn knees as he did.

"When you're ready, iff'n you want, I'll listen."

For the rest of the evening, Coonskin managed to steer the conversation away from anything having to do with Joe's mother, Marie, and her first born son, Clay. The young man shouldered a burden, and in Coonskin's experience, some burdens were best left for the bearer to decipher.

Sleep engulfed Joe long before Coonskin. Lying on his side in the token comfort of the cot, the old man watched as shadows lit by the rhythmic flames danced across Joe's cheeks. _Whatever's ailin' him in his wakin' hours sure ain't ailin' him now. Sleep'll do him a world o' good._ With a poke to his pillow and a tug on the blanket, Coonskin settled in for the night. ****


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Dawn cracked a welcoming smile as fatback sizzled in the pan. Coonskin pulled day-old biscuits from his sack and placed them on plates before returning to the stove for the coffee pot. He poured two cups and carried them to the table, stealing a peek at the mound on the rug in front of the hearth—Joe was nothing if not a sound sleeper.

Coonskin searched a shelf, grinning broadly when he spotted a small jar of preserves. He set the jar against the table with a thud, hoping to rouse his sleeping friend.

He succeeded.

From the floor, a symphony of moans accompanied a ballet of stretches, and as he finished preparing breakfast, Coonskin added a whistled tune to the morning ritual.

"Agh . . . What's that r-r-racket?"

Coonskin continued his serenade as he stabbed pieces of crisped bacon and plopped them onto the plates. He glanced at Joe, and his eyes twinkled when the young man sighed and drew the blanket up and over his head.

"You gonna waste the day cozied up like a babe in a cradle or are ya gonna join me for some bacon 'n' biscuits?" Coonskin grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it to the table. He smiled when Joe threw the cover to his side and pushed and pulled himself to his feet.

Staggering a bit, Joe crossed the room.

"Sleep well, boy?"

"Matter of fact," Joe said, yawning as he scratched his head and then his chest, "I did, all the way up until that cat got its tail caught in the barn door."

Coonskin hooted and laughed. "Why, little Little Joe," he said as he sat at the table, "I reckon your pa ain't seen to your cult'ral upbringin'."

With a forceful twist, he opened the jar of preserves. Knife in hand, he slathered the jelly atop his biscuit. "Many a time's I've been invited ta whistle up a melody or two."

Joe reached for the preserves. "I'm guessin' your audience was made up of deaf folks, drunks, and Hop Sing's cousins!"

Coonskin's laugh, as hardy as before, trickled away with a twinge of melancholy. He helped himself to another strip of bacon, his thoughts drifting to a familiar voice. _"Felton, my darlin', your whistlin' may not be perfect, but it sure does carry your heart and soul into the wind."_

The rest of the meal was eaten in thoughtful silence, each man aware of the whispers of the past.

After assurances from both of ample supplies, promises of future visits, and a handshake worthy of their life-long friendship, Coonskin started the three-mile ride home, and Joe headed toward the next marker on his swing—the northernmost Witness Tree on the Ponderosa.

SEC 109, N.E. COR, 20 WEST.

The letters and numbers Joe scribed into the ledger held no more memories than the sage-littered ground beneath the Witness Tree. The same could be said for the day the names were etched on the other side of the tree: Hoss and Joe.

He'd been here once before, at the young age of five, and it was eight-year-old Hoss who'd scratched the letters into the chestnut bark some thirteen years ago. The names whispered to him, and he traced the "J" with one finger. He thought back, as best he could, to that day, and all he could recall was the feeling of loss and uncertainty.

Joe's mother had been gone for five months and Adam had begun his journey east to attend college. Beside himself with grief and desperate for time away from the house that had become Marie's, his father had packed up his two younger sons and started off on a grand swing of the Ponderosa. That's all Joe could recall—a blessing, really. Any other details of that swing came from stories told in later years, mostly by Hoss, and Joe knew those were the tales of a wide-eyed boy seeing the breadth of the Ponderosa for the first time; a Ponderosa that had since quadrupled in acreage and holdings.

That growth somehow comforted him, and Joe nodded and smiled at the names on the tree, acknowledging the young boys in his memories. A moment later, he tucked the ledger into his jacket pocket.

Turning away, he imagined having Hoss and Adam along on this swing, and a pang of homesickness squeezed his chest. A swing could easily be a two or three man job; repairing line shacks damaged by time, man, and mostly nature, could turn into quite a chore.

The decision several days ago to slink away before dawn and assume the sole responsibility of this grand swing still seemed logical to Joe. His brothers were needed at the ranch–two prized bulls were scheduled to arrive, and Hoss was the best when it came to calming the travel-weary animals, and Adam's obligations to a new lumber contract meant handling negotiations between the railroad and their father. But now, as he turned to the tree yet again, he stared. The memories conjured by two simple names left Joe with regret for any worry his decision was causing his family.

"It's not like I just up and left," he thought. "Pa said one of us had to go, but as usual, we couldn't decide who it should be."

Joe huffed. "That's not true. Adam and Hoss knew they were needed for other things. Maybe," he leaned his back against the tree and slid to the ground, "they knew I needed to get away even before I did!"

Wrapping a fist around a growth of weeds, Joe ripped them from the dirt and stripped them one layer at a time.

"By now, Hoss'll be settling the bulls, making sure they've got plenty to graze on, talking to them like only he can." Joe pictured the west corral and his bigger brother, one foot propped on the fence, chatting softly to the big brutes.

Joe stood. He smiled and stroked Cochise's neck. "If Hoss had taken the swing, it'd be me with those bulls, and I'd much rather sweet talk a pretty little gal like the one Coonskin saw.

"And Adam. He'll be up at the lumber camp, eating whatever old Cookie scrapes off his boots and serves up as chow." His smile broadened. "He'll be spoutin' out orders and seein' to every last detail, then mounting up and riding back and forth to keep Pa and the railroad man in Virginia City up on the latest." He nodded. "Good thing Adam likes to ride."

Stretching his arms above his head, Joe arched his back and cracked his neck. "I think Pa wanted me to be the one to make the swing, but he wasn't about to tell me to.

"I left a note, but knowing Pa, he'll still be worried. It's like he can't help himself. I mean, what does he think I'll do, start off on a swing and just keep going? Ride off somewhere? Have an adventure?"

"That's what Clay called it—an adventure to end all adventures. And then, he left me behind." He huffed yet again, then he reached for his horses' reins. "And I don't know if I'll ever see him again."

Joe swung into the saddle, stared one final time at the Witness Tree, and then started on his way. As the meadow disappeared behind him, he thought about Clay, on his own, no one to answer to, no one to lean on. And Joe's thoughts turned to the young girl roaming the mountains. Who was she, and were there people wondering if they'd ever see her again?

The next marker laid half a day's ride ahead, and Joe had a feeling that questions would haunt him along the way.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

As Joe neared the Truckee River, thinning pines surrendered to the relentless midday sun. He tugged on the brim of his hat, and he smiled when Cochise and Jasper picked up their pace. Leading his horses to water wouldn't be a problem; with the sun beating down from the azure sky, they were anxious to drink.

The ground, no longer blanketed in auburn pine needles, grew sandy and dotted with sage, and the ever changing landscape reminded Joe of the vastness of the Ponderosa.

The next marker, an etched wooden cross, lay just ahead. Anticipation softened the thoughts that had churned all morning in Joe's mind—thoughts of a future without the brother he'd hardly begun to know, thoughts of a young woman roaming the Ponderosa through the harsh winter months— and soon, the hastened rhythm of the horses' gaits hushed Joe's thoughts all together.

Moments later, just a few yards ahead, the marker, one of the smallest, stood unscathed and barely hidden. Joe dismounted and led the horses to the riverbank. As they drank their fill, he logged the section, adding in the margin a suggestion to consider a new purchase; the expansion of their cattle herds meant concerns for grazing land and access to more water.

Satisfied with his entry, Joe clapped shut the ledger and shoved it into his pocket, smiling in anticipation of his father's approval. Stretching his arms up high, he filled his lungs and tilted his head from side to side, working the kinks from his neck. He arched his back and leaned left, then right. With a sigh, he gathered the horses' reins, swung into the saddle, and started east toward a spot Hoss often described as 'havin' the biggest, tastiest trout to set fins in water'. Joe chuckled aloud, remembering Adam's reaction to their brother's proclamation. "We'll see, bigger brother. We'll just see."

Mile after mile, the Truckee at his side, Joe's mood continued to lighten. The prospect of adding to their holdings excited him. In the past, his brothers had been the ones to field ideas and suggestions to their father—Joe had been too young to have a learned opinion. But in those instances, while tucked down quietly at the top of the staircase, Joe listened, gave thought, and learned. And now, for once, Joe felt positive about his habit of eavesdropping.

After a brief stop for lunch, Joe tested the buckles of Jasper's packs and tightened the cinch of Cochise's saddle. He spoke softly to the horses, his voice soothing the animals as well as himself, and he realized again how much he'd enjoyed his unplanned encounter with Coonskin Tully.

 _I can't wait to see Pa's face when I tell him who I ran into. Pa worries about Coonskin living all alone in the mountains._

Joe's thoughts drifted to Emmaline, her bright smile, her warm, green eyes, and the way she always seemed to know what Coonskin was about to say.

 _I guess that's part of why he prefers the life of a recluse. After Emmaline died, he couldn't seem to adjust, but Pa's right. At his age, Coonskin'd be better off closer to Virginia City._

Joe wondered if he should have abandoned the grand swing, invited the old trapper to pay his father a visit, and escorted him to the ranch himself. He shook his head. _He'll come down when he's ready. In the meantime, Pa's gonna be relieved when I tell him I saw-_

"Joe? Joe Cartwright? Is that you?"

As he turned Cochise, Joe curled his fingers around the grip of his gun. His hand relaxed and his shoulders eased when a familiar face greeted him from the edge of the riverbank.

"Tobias, you oughtta know better than to sneak up on a body like that!"

"Sneak up? I'll have you know I was here first," Tobias said as he made his way up the incline from the Truckee River. "Why, I've been out here fishing since dawn. It was you that gave me a scare, riding up on me that way."

Joe slid from his saddle and greeted the Virginia City merchant with a firm handshake. "Didn't expect to see anyone from town."

"Well, I didn't think I'd run into a Cartwright down this way, not bein' round-up season and all." Tobias leaned his pole against a rock. "It's not often I take a couple of days off, you know."

Joe looked across the river and up ahead. "You've got a camp around here?"

Tobias pointed further south. "Down a ways. Not much of a camp, though. Just a fire, coffee, beans, and few blankets."

Joe's eyes twinkled. "Tobias Taft, roughing it along the Truckee. Never thought I'd see the day!"

The two men chuckled, and before long, they sat in the small clearing that Tobias fancied a camp. While Joe busied himself cleaning two large trout, Tobias stirred flour, soda, and water together in a bowl.

"The skillet's nice and hot, Joe. You about done with the fish?"

"Yes, sir." Joe dropped the trout into the pan and smiled at the hissing that followed. "Biscuits ready to go on?"

Tobias nodded and hung the Dutch oven over the fire. "Shouldn't take too long," he said, leaning back against a tree.

Joe did the same, resting in the hollow of his saddle. "You know, Tobias, I started out on this swing hoping to be all by myself, no one to listen to, no one to answer to."

"Best thing to do when life's weighin' heavy. That's why I'm out here, too."

Joe crossed his ankles and drew his hands behind his head. "You've got troubles?"

"Sure do. The store's in need of a new roof, I had to fire that fool kid, Wilbur Dunham, and two of my special orders for Clementine Hawkins came in all wrong. You ever have to deal with that . . . that female when she's all riled up?"

Joe giggled.

"Sure, laugh! You know, Joe, a mercantile owner has to deal with all sorts of people every blessed day. Why, my customers range from people like you and your pa to the likes of Clementine Hawkins and Old Eddie."

Joe huffed and nodded.

"Eddie may be a quiet old drunk, but when he's halfway sober, he gets pretty dang mouthy. And then, there's Obie. Oh, he spends a fair amount in my store, but he insists on bringing that darned dog of his inside, and I'm not sure which one smells worse!"

Joe started to respond, but instead, he chortled.

"And Vernie Smith. You met him yet? He hasn't been in town long, but he bought the old Larson place. Practically had to build the house and barn all over again."

Joe sat up, grabbed a fork, and flipped the searing fish.

"Anyway, Mr. Smith loves to talk. And I mean loves to talk. Why, I've seen customers walk right out of my place 'cause I can't break way from him. Can't you believe that? I'm losing customers 'cause he's got to tell me about everything from his breakfast to his lumbago!"

Joe shook his head. "Pffft. Image, someone going on and on and-"

"It never ends, Joe. In fact, just last month, a stranger came into the store while I was waiting on Mr. Smith. Well, Smith was making small talk and the stranger had a list in his hand, and you know what that means."

"'Fraid I don't." Joe settled back against the saddle.

"A list means a big sale, Joe. And it was all I could do to get away from Smith so I could wait on the stranger." Tobias shook his head. "Never did get the stranger's name. Quiet sort. Never forget him, though. Not too many young men wearing a wolverine fur in Virginia City."

Joe sat up straight. "Did you say wolverine?"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"Yes, that's what I said. Wolverine."

Tobias offered Joe a plate, and stunned, Joe reached for it.

"And you say the stranger was a 'him'?"

"A what?" Tobias asked. "Oh, yeah, the stranger was a man."

Joe inched forward, scooting himself along the ground. "And you talked to him?"

Tobias screwed up his face. "Why, of course I did." He stabbed his fork into one of the trout and laid it on Joe's plate. "How else could I wait on him and sell him those supplies?"

Joe shrugged off the reply. "Did he mention where he was from? Where he's staying?"

Tobias worked his fork along the sides of the Dutch oven. "Never came up." He slid the metal in between each crusted biscuit. "Why are you so curious about this man, Joe?"

"For now, let's just say I am." Joe nodded when a steaming biscuit landed on his plate. "Do you remember anything this stranger said?"

Having filled his own plate and nearly done the same to his mouth, Tobias set his fork aside and held up one finger.

Joe waited, patiently at first, as the store owner chewed, and Joe found himself relieved they dined on flaky trout rather than thick steak. When at last Tobias swallowed, Joe leaned forward, eager for information. Tobias Taft had a gift for recalling details, and Joe hoped to unwrap the mystery of the wolverine-wearing stranger.

"Now, let me see . . . The first time he came in, I'd just opened the store. Now mind you, I start my day promptly at 5 a.m."

Tobias bit into a biscuit, and Joe settled back on his haunches, hoping his tasty fish would compensate for his anxiety.

Finally, Tobias swallowed.

"I'd just finished stacking a delivery of coal oil when the door opened and there he stood." Lifting his fork to his lips, he paused. "Why, Joe, I tell you, I've see a lot in my time, but I've never seen such a sight!"

Once again, Joe was at the mercy of the eating process, and when Tobias swallowed this time, Joe was tempted to snatch his friend's plate away.

"Now, it WAS a bitter morning, Joe. Why, that morning I, myself, donned my thickest long johns and still shivered on the way to the store."

"The stranger, Tobias, the stranger."

"Ah, yes. He was wearing woolen trousers, a smoky, gray color, and a fine pair of boots. But it was the wolverine coat, tied at the waist with a simple, thick twine that made him quite the oddity."

"Wolverine. Black and white wolverine?"

"That's right. But, how . . .? I never mentioned the color, Joe. I take it you've met this young man then?"

Joe stared across the river, barely shaking his head. "No, I haven't. But I sure would like to."

Tobias shrugged and slid his fork under the last morsel of trout on his plate. "He's a quiet one, as I said. Had a list of needs in his hand, put it down on my counter, and just waited while I shopped the shelves. Now, I know what's typical for my customers, so when I asked him about quantities, he just nodded. Seemed the amounts I suggested were just what he needed."

"What did he buy?"

"Now, let me think," he said, before taking the last of his fish into his mouth.

Joe rolled his eyes and propped an elbow atop his knee. He chomped down on his biscuit, staring at his friend as they both worked their jaws.

This time, Tobias swallowed before Joe. "He visited the store on three occasions over a period of, oh, about four months. Each time, he bought flour, sugar, coffee, canned beans, and a side of bacon."

Tobias used his fingertip, dotting the biscuit crumbs that remained on his place. He licked his finger, set his plate on the ground, and nodded. "Let's see . . . On his first visit, he also bought kerosene, matches, and a pair of gloves." He poured two cups of coffee and offered one to Joe. "On his second, he purchased a compass and my most expensive set of binoculars."

Joe tapped his thumbnail against his cup.

"Curious, isn't it?" Tobias said. "Never took his hat off, by the way. And the third time, the only time he really did any talking, he bought a pad of paper, an ink well, and ink. And then, with that fur hood of his still pulled close to his head, he asked me two questions."

Tobias blew on his coffee, sipped, and swallowed. "Whoa, that's good and hot!" He blew out again.

"The questions, Tobias. The questions!"

Tobias sipped and swallowed. "Let's see . . . He asked how many years has the Ponderosa been around and where's the nearest blacksmith."

Joe's pulse quickened. "He asked about the Ponderosa?"

"That he did. I figured he'd be stopping by, looking for work. I told him the Ponderosa was up and running when I set up shop more than fifteen years ago. Then the young man nodded and asked where he could have his horse shod. I told him to go down to A Street and see Galen Blake. Said he was the best blacksmith in Virginia City."

Joe's thoughts raced in spurts and sputters.

"Oh," Tobias said, sitting forward to yank off his right boot. "I forgot one thing." He emptied several small stones from his boot.

"What?" Joe tensed and leaned toward his friend. "What did you forget?"

Tobias leveled his head and then tilted it to one side. "You're really worked up about this stranger, Joe. Are you sure y-"

"What did you forget?"

"No need to shout. I was about to tell you. Each time the stranger came in, he also purchased a bagful of horehound candies."

The trout was large and some of the best he'd eaten, just as Hoss had said, but instead of rehearsing what he'd tell his brothers about the fare, Joe found the mysterious stranger filled his thoughts as he left Tobias Taft and made his way toward the next stop on his swing. He'd gone about two miles when nature whispered his name, and he tucked himself behind a thick tree trunk, answered the call, and returned to Cochise and Jasper.

Habit whispered next, and Joe tested the cinch and checked the saddlebags. _A compass and binoculars._ He rested his forearms against Jasper's side. _Anyone trekking these mountains would arrive carrying both. Anyone with half a brain, that is._

Joe stroked Jasper before patting him on the rump. _I reckon compasses break now and then._ He shrugged his shoulders. _I guess the same could be said about binoculars._

He walked to Cochise, stopping long enough to scratch the horse's forehead. _But, someone who needs to squat in a line shack in the winter wouldn't have the cash for Tobias's best. And why the sudden need for paper and ink? I know for a fact here's plenty of that in the line shack._

Joe's swing mount was swift and smooth, and he'd ridden just a few feet before he reined Cochise to a stop. _Coonskin met a gal, Tobias met a man. A wolverine-wearing, horehound-loving man—or woman, spending time on the Ponderosa in the dead of winter, making his or her way into town, asking about the ranch, in need of a blacksm-That's it!_

Joe gathered the reins, drew them to the left, and pressed his heels against his horse. "Let's go, Cooch. It's not exactly on the way, but we're taking a side trip to Virginia City."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

As Virginia City came into view, it crossed Joe's mind the town had a drone that ebbed and flowed with the sunrise and sunset; with the herds of people, sometimes sparse, other times, dense. He cocked his head, listening for the squeal of wagon wheels and the sometimes raucous laughter of idle men. It was mid-afternoon, the morning rush had come and gone, and the evening's restaurant diners and saloon revelers were still at their homes, finishing chores or savoring respite from the afternoon heat. The town seemed quiet, peaceful even—like the day a stranger rode in and announced he was Joe's brother.

Joe knew exactly where to find the town's blacksmith, Galen Blake III. The young man, notorious for his midday naps, would be right where Joe had found him on occasion, fast asleep in the loft of his shop.

Galen, third in a line of skilled blacksmiths, had inherited both talent and the large workshop where his father and his grandfather had forged shoes and fashioned wheels for the settlers of what had long since become Virginia City.

Often described as a simpleton, eighteen-year-old Galen often found himself bullied by strangers, but his gentleness, innate skill, and devotion to his work had earned him the friendship and admiration of those with the patience to get to know the pleasant young man. Many a time, the Cartwrights stood fast in Galen's defense, and he considered them friends.

Riding past Clementine Hawkins' boarding house, Joe tipped his hat and nodded to the couple walking through the white picket gate. Immediately, he rounded the corner and made his way down the length of B Street, slowing in front of Galen's Smithy and Livery.

The large pine doors were ajar, inviting patchy wisps of air inside to lessen the season's humidity. Joe dismounted and tied Cochise and Jasper to the empty post. Once inside, he called out to Galen, and he chuckled softly when the only response was a drawn out garble of snoring.

Eager for answers to his questions, Joe climbed the loft ladder, just as he'd done on numerous occasions. The sight of young Galen asleep on the cot settled Joe's approach—with gentle conversation, Galen was likely to offer details about the wolverine-jacketed stranger.

Legs dangling from the loft edge, Joe spoke softly to his friend. "I ride all the way to Virginia City just to talk to Galen Blake, and what's he doing? Sleeping."

Joe leaned back and pressed his palms against the floorboards. "Reckon Cochise won't be havin' any sugar today."

"Joe Cartwright," Galen mumbled as he rolled to his back, "don't you dare. Your horse, Cochise, is my friend. She always gets sugar when you two come to see me."

Well, now," Joe said, stretching his back, "if you're gonna insist on feeding my horse, I hope you've got six extra sugar cubes."

Galen bolted upright on his mattress. "But Joe, I'm only supposed to give your horse, Cochise, three sugar cubes. Not two, not four. Just three. Your brother, Hoss, he lets me give his horse, Chubb, four cubes 'cause he's so big—Chubb, I mean, not your brother."

Galen crawled closer to Joe, hay drifting through the boards with each drag of his legs. "Well, Hoss is kinda big, too. But your horse, Cochise, she's only s'pposed to get three."

Joe drew up his legs and pivoted on his behind. He smiled, easing the confused look on the man's face. "You're absolutely right. Chubb gets four sugar cubes from his friend, Galen, and Cochise gets three. And my brother Hoss is bigger than big. But today, I've got another friend with me. You remember Jasper, don't you?"

Galen drew nearer, excitement on his face. "Jasper, the mule?"

"The one and only."

Imitating Joe's posture, Galen settled, his eyes wide with excitement. "Joe, I like your mule, Jasper. He likes me, too. But I never gave him three sugar cubes before. You reckon he'll like 'em?"

Joe reached out and tapped Galen's shoulder. "You bet he will. What say we climb down and see to that sugar?"

Once Cochise and Jasper had finished their treats, Joe eased the conversation toward the mysterious stranger. Backs pressed against the wall, he and Galen sat side by side on the hay-strewn smithy floor. Joe snatched up a handful of the covering, selected a fat, tender stalk, and tossed the rest aside. Peeling thin strips from the piece of hay, Joe casually reminded Galen he hadn't been to the Ponderosa in several weeks.

"Stormy had her pups, you know, and Hoss's been wonderin' why you haven't been out to see them."

"I've been awful busy, Joe." Galen mirrored Joe, lazily stripping a stalk of his own. "Most of the roundups are over, and lots of drovers need new shoes for their horses. Even the not-so-nice ones. Drovers can be mean, Joe."

"I know, Galen. But remember what me and Hoss and Adam and our pa told you?"

"I do, Joe. If anyone needs a talkin' to, just let you know."

"That's right, Galen. Just point him out and one of us will see to it he leaves you alone."

"Right, Joe."

"Now, about those pups . . ."

"I was plannin' on comin' to the Ponderosa on Sunday after church. Would that be all right, Joe?"

Joe rested his elbows atop his knees and buried his chin between his hands. Galen did the same.

"That sounds fine to me," Joe replied, "but I've got some ranch business that's gonna keep me out on the range for a few days. I don't recall there being a Sunday social this week, but you'd best check with my family when you see them at church—just to be sure they're heading home after the service. I'm sure Hop Sing will make something special when he sees you ridin' up."

"All right, Joe. I'll watch for Hoss outside the church. Next to you, I like talkin' to him best."

Joe turned his head toward his friend, his chin still cupped in his palms. "What about Adam and my pa?"

"I like them fine, Joe. They're always nice to me and they say I do mighty fine work." Galen lowered his chin and shielded his eyes with his opened fingers. "But sometimes, they use words I don't know real good."

Joe copied Galen's posture. "Yeah. I don't know some of those words real good, either."

"I'm tryin' to learn more fancy words, Joe."

"Oh yeah?"

"Uh huh. I listen, real careful, when my customers talk. Sometimes, when there's a word I don't know, I remember it and later, I ask Mrs. Myers what it means. She helps me with words all the time."

Joe hid the pained expression that appeared on his face at the mention of his former school teacher.

"Just the other day," Galen continued, "I had to ask Mrs. Myers what 'embroid'ry' meant, and she said it's when someone uses thread and a needle to decorate something, like flowers on a quilt or puttin' a letter on a shirt pocket."

"I see."

Galen raised his head and turned to Joe. "I like talkin' to nice people, Joe, even when they use fancy words. Some people aren't nice, but most of 'em are. Even new people."

Joe couldn't have asked for a smoother segue. "Have you seen any new people in Virginia City lately?"

Galen smiled. "I sure have, Joe. Just the other day, a fella came in with a brown and white paint that needed a new left-front shoe. And guess what?"

"What?"

"Guess!"

Joe sighed with his eyes. "I'm not good at guessing, Galen."

"Okay, Joe. I'll just tell you. Strapped on the back of the paint, there was a wolverine coat! Can you believe it? Real wolverine! I ain't never seen a wolverine or a wolverine coat. Have you, Joe?"

Joe's back was rigid. "Can't say that I have, but I'd-"

"And the fella had a E and a J on his shirt pocket. I told him I'd never seen a man with letters on his pocket and that's when he called it, 'embroid'ry'."

"Just let him talk," Joe thought.

"And guess what else?" Galen's expression suddenly fell flat. "Oh, sorry, Joe. I forgot you're not good at guessin'. Well, the fella and me, we talked the whole time I was workin', and he had a sack with him, and after he paid me for the shoein', he reached inside and gave me three pieces of horehound just 'cause I said I like it!"

Joe couldn't keep quiet any longer. "What was the fellow's name?"

Galen's brow wrinkled and his eyes looked at the ceiling. "Um . . .," he looked back at Joe, "he didn't say, Joe. But he did ask a lot of questions."

"Can you remember any of them?"

Galen's chest puffed. "Sure can. He asked how long I've lived in Virginia City, if I like to ride around Lake Tahoe, if I know lots of ranchers hereabouts, if I know what the biggest ranch is called, and if I know a man named Ben Cartwright."

Joe fell silent, and the pleased expression on Galen's face slowly gave way to concern.

"That's all he asked me about, Joe, honest."

Joe forced a smile. "I believe you, Galen. But what I need to know now is what you told the stranger?"

Galen bit on his lip and squinted. "I told him I was born in Virginia City, I like to ride around the lake, I know every rancher in these parts, the biggest ranch is the Ponderosa, and yes. And then, the stranger paid me, took his horse, and went away." He smiled and nodded at his success.

Joe wondered if the stranger had mentioned the line shack or the reason for his interest in his father, and he started to ask Galen the same. But Galen's memory for conversations was nothing short of miraculous, so instead, Joe patted Galen on the shoulder. "Thanks for telling me. And for the sugar cubes for Cochise and Jasper."

"You're welcome. You and your horse, Cochise, and your mule, Jasper."

Joe headed for the smithy door. "Make sure you get out to the ranch to see those pups."

"I will, Joe. Come Sunday, I sure will."

Joe smiled and nodded, and as he rode down B Street, he reviewed what he'd learned from Coonskin, Tobias, and Galen. At the crossroads on the outskirts of Virginia City, Joe hesitated, then rode toward home. Along the way, he searched his memory for a woman with the initials EJ.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Adam felt drained. From a rancher's perspective, the day had been neither strenuous nor long, and while the discussion and decisions made had been productive, the hours spent in the company of lawyers had chafed his last nerve.

The lumber contract between the Cartwrights and Roman Gilbert should have been standard. Instead, Roman's demands added the most nitpicky of terms to the agreement—nothing that would affect the monetary outcome, but items Adam considered to be generally accepted in the lumber trade. It was more than obvious that this was Roman's first attempt at contract negotiations.

The smell of pork roasting teased Adam as he rounded the trail and rode into the yard. Dinner was a few hours away, but he'd skipped lunch when the meeting dragged on, and he wished he'd stopped in Virginia City for a bite to eat before heading home.

He tilted his neck from side to side, failing to ease the day's tension, and it wasn't until he'd dismounted and looped Sport's reins around the hitching post that he noticed his father seated at the table on the front porch of the ranch house.

Ben closed his journal and laid his pen atop the leather cover. He shook his head at his eldest son's expression. "Well?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Adam stepped onto the porch, leaned forward, and flattened his palms against the table. "Roman Gilbert has no head for business."

Ben simply stared.

"And you knew that, which is why you invented a reason to stay home today."

"Son, I'll have you know I was busy all day."

Adam tapped a finger against his father's journal. "Busy contemplating your thoughts. You must be exhausted."

Ben's tone belied his slight smile. "I'll have you know I spent the morning mending the cross posts of the corral and the better part of the afternoon repairing the broken wheel on the buggy."

"Pa, I still think I drew the short stick." Adam lowered himself into a chair. "Roman's penchant for the obvious is outweighed only by his fondness for the redundant."

Ben chuckled. "Was it really that bad?"

"No. It was worse."

Ben's laughter blossomed. "Can I assume since you're here and not a guest in the Virginia City jail that the final contract met your standards?"

"Our standards, Pa. And yes, it did." Adam tipped his chair and propped his foot against the table leg.

"Thank you, Adam." Ben folded his hands atop the table. "I know you and Roman come at things from different perspectives," he stared at his hands, "but I felt I needed to-"

"To stay close to home because you're not convinced that Joe won't go after Clay."

Ben looked at Adam. "Yes. And I don't think I'm the only one."

"Pa, I'm . . . concerned for Joe."

"Worry and concern are one in the same, son."

"Well, yes and no. I don't believe Joe has any intention in going off to find his brother. But I am concerned that Clay played with Joe's emotions. Not intentionally."

Staring out into the yard, Ben nodded. "I hope you're right about Clay.

Adam followed his father's gaze. "You expecting someone?"

Ben pulled himself from his thoughts. "Your brother."

"Pa, I don't think Joe's-"

"Not Joe. Hoss."

"What?" Adam asked, sitting forward in his chair. "I thought Hoss was here, working on the fencing with you."

"He is, he was." Ben folded his hands again. "Something's troubling Hoss. He hasn't been himself all day."

"Did you ask what's bothering him?"

"Yes. But he was short with me, told me I have enough worry with Joseph,"

"Really?" Adam stood and stretched. "I suppose he's in the barn."

Ben nodded.

"Well then," he said, stepping down from the porch. "I think I'll tuck Sport in for the evening."

"Adam, don't-tell him I-"

"I'm putting up my horse, Pa," Adam said as he walked toward the hitching post. "Nothing more."

"Dadburnit!" Hoss kicked at the milk bucket in the corner of the stall. "Can't nobody put nothin' away around here?"

From the barn doorway, Adam leaned and watched in silence.

"It's getting' so a man can't find what he needs when he needs it." Hoss hung the pail on the long, rusted nail. "Dadburnit. It's like I'm lookin' for a needle in a haystack!"

"Darnin' your socks in the barn again, Hoss?"

Hoss spun around and lost his footing. He grabbed onto the side of the stall and swallowed hard. "Dang it, Adam, you just shaved ten years off my life!"

Adam righted himself and led Sport into the barn.

"What are you doin' home so early anyway?" Hoss asked.

"Early?" Adam dipped the feed bowl into the barrel. "You comin' down with a cold?

"Huh?"

"It's nearly supper time and I smelled Hop Sing's pork roasting before the yard came into view."

Hoss wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Oh, yeah."

"Oh, yeah? Pork roasting in the oven and all you can say is oh yeah?"

Hoss glared at his smiling brother. "Why don't you just feed that old flea bag of yours 'n' go on in the house? I'm sure there's a book just pinin' away, waitin' for you to turn the pages."

Adam's smile grew to a grin, and Hoss's stern face gradually lost its bluster.

"You wanna talk?" Adam asked as he dumped oats into Sport's trough.

Hoss snatched up the rake and spread the fresh hay along the floor. "No."

"You gonna anyway?"

Hoss propped the rake against the barn wall. "Do you think the grand swing's gonna help Joe? With his feelings about Clay, I mean."

Adam stroked Sports neck as he considered Hoss's question. "Yes," he said, stepping out into the opening. "I think it will settle Joe, make him see just how much the Ponderosa has to offer." He grabbed the rake and handed it to Hoss before reaching for another next to the small table.

For several silent minutes, Adam and Hoss worked together to scatter the hay.

"Adam?" Hoss stopped mid stroke. "What if Joe decides it ain't enough? Ranchin', I mean. Some men aren't cut out for it, you know."

Adam stopped, as well, and leaned against the rake. "You're right, Hoss. Some aren't. But I don't believe youngest brother is one of them."

Hoss started raking again, this time, alone.

"Just like I don't believe your mood today is just about whether or not the swing will make Joe feel better. "You wanna talk?"

"Would it matter if I said no?"

"No."

Hoss plucked the rake from his brother's hands. "Somehow, I knew that." He returned both rakes to their rightful places and dragged two barrels together in the center of the barn.

Adam sat and looked up at Hoss.

Suddenly, Hoss felt the need to pace. "I wish I was more like Joe."

Adam scratched at his neck. "Pa couldn't take it."

"Aw, Adam, I'm serious."

"Sorry. Continue."

"Joe told Clay he wanted more than ranchin', and Clay was ready to take Joe with him."

Adam nodded. "Hoss, Clay dangled his way of life in front of Joe. Traveling, women, seeing the sights, women, fighting other men' battles, women, drinking, women." He stood, hands on his hips, and stepped in front of Hoss. "We were raised to respect people and property, to see the beauty in the land no matter where, to fight our own battles and join in the fights we truly believe in."

"You forgot the women."

"Hardly," Adam said with a smirk.

Hoss sat on a barrel and sighed.

"Hoss," Adam said as he sat, "what's this really about?"

Hoss leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. "You know the dance tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

"I was lookin' for my new string tie—the one Sheriff Coffee gave me for my birthday last month."

"I remember."

"Well, it was in the back of my wardrobe, and so was that old spear—the one-"

"The one Uncle Gunnar gave you."

Hoss simply nodded, and the two sat in awkward silence.

Finally, Adam said, "You're going to have to help me here, Hoss."

"It wasn't him," Hoss said softly. "The man that showed up on our doorstep wasn't the Uncle Gunnar I knew. I mean, I know I never met him before, but he wasn't my Uncle Gunnar—the one I pictured when Pa told me stories, the one I dreamed about, the one I thought would tell me all about my mother." Hoss shook his head. "He was a robbing, murdering commanchero."

"Hoss-"

"Ain't no need to make it something it wasn't, Adam. Oh, I know he saved Joe and Carrie from the rest of his gang, but that don't change what he was, how he lived all those years, all the people he hurt."

Adam laced his fingers together and set his hands in his lap. "You've been stewing on this for more than a year? Hoss, why didn't you talk to me sooner?"

"You know I ain't much for talkin' things out. This whole mess with Joe and Clay made me think, Adam. Just because someone's family doesn't mean you know them. It doesn't mean they feel the way you do about things. It doesn't mean they can't disappoint you."

"Everyone's capable of causing disappointment, Hoss. It's part of the human condition, part of what makes us vulnerable, part of what-"

"You just don't get it, Adam. What if Joe doesn't come home?"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

No matter how long she stared, the plate of eggs, bacon, and biscuits held no answers. The realization prompted a bit of a snort followed by a deep, weary sigh. She loaded her fork, lifted it, and found herself searching the fluffy, yellow bite as she turned the metal in her fingers. She sighed once more. She shook her head and let the fork land atop the bed of eggs.

Leaning back against her saddle, she straightened her legs, crossed her ankles, placed the plate next to her and sighed—yet again.

Her grandfather had often called her "the most decisive gal in Humboldt Wells," but now, sitting at what could be the most important crossroad in her seventeen years, Olive Jacobson's certainty dithered.

Born in the largest of three bedrooms in her grandfather's way station, Olive had spent her entire life near the small town of Humboldt Wells in the company of strangers—wagon trains and single families and small groups of men on horseback passing through the meadows and springs on their way to California's golden dreams.

The strangers came and went, most staying just one night to gather supplies and rest their horses as well as themselves. For many, after months of rugged terrain bearing uncertainty and for some, death, new faces revived their purpose. Jacobson's Station stocked a variety of goods, offered several corrals of fresh horses and sturdy working stock, and served up meals and conversation for those making the dangerous crossing west.

When asked why there was a need for a way station so close to a town, Olive's grandfather never hesitated to reply, "Humboldt Wells has no law, four saloons, and is chock full of the men who seek that sort of town. As it is, that town's no place for a decent man set on keeping his family together and his hard-earned savings in his pocket."

A year before her grandfather, Emmitt, had even considered enlarging his business, a passing group of outlaws set fire to Humboldt Wells' two small stores and three of its four saloons, and when it came time to rebuild, the saloons were the town folks' only priority. The news quickly reached Emmitt, and he used the fires to his advantage, adding on to his station and securing suppliers for his new venture. Before long, word spread, and Jacobson's Station became an essential stop along the desert-laden, often hazardous California Trail.

Olive's recollections began after the expansion of the station. Memories of her mother, Medora, were vague, the brief bits and pieces having been provided by her grandfather. But Olive did remember some things. She treasured the memory of a vibrant woman who lit up the room with her laughter, and she loathed the many times her mother had left her feeling frightened and sad.

As Olive eventually learned, her mother despised most aspects of the family business. Medora, an only child, had been expected to do her share. As she matured, she took over the cooking, cleaning, and at times, caring for the children of those passing through the station. She loved her father, but over the years, the excitement of meeting so many strangers and the tales they told at the dinner table night after night fed her longing for adventure.

Her fascination with what lie beyond the safety of the Jacobson homestead brought about many sleepless nights for Emmitt. Often, that fascination led to arguments, especially when triggered by young, handsome men full of lofty hopes and, to the father of a beautiful, young woman, seemingly empty promises.

One spring, after a particularly mild winter, a single rider had descended on the station—a tall, blonde, broad-shouldered man in his mid-twenties. With the pledge to work for his supper and a night's lodging, the man was welcomed into the station by Olive's grandfather. That single night turned into two months' worth of honest, backbreaking chores. Her grandfather had been impressed—until the man's ability and commitment paved the way to escorting Medora to weekly dances in Humboldt Wells and the promise of love, adventure, and a future away from Jacobson's Station.

And then, after hours of discussion that turned into pleading, arguments, and threats between father and daughter, the man, without a word, packed his things disappeared, leaving Medora Jacobson heartbroken and with child, and Emmitt with a fear that would eventually come true.

Five years later, at the age of twenty three, Medora cooked her last meal and cleaned up after her last wagon train. One clear, August night, she, too, packed her small portmanteau, slipped from the station, saddled her horse, and, followed the trail so many had taken before her—west toward California, leaving her angry father and her confused, five-year-old daughter behind.

For eleven years, since the morning she awoke to find her mother gone, Olive believed her grandfather's explanation— _"Your mama took sick, Olive, real sick. You must forgive her, little one. She went away to spare us her suffering and ours, as well."_

"Grandpa," she'd asked, "Mama always said Papa's in Heaven. Is Mama in Heaven now, too?"

"Yes, Olive," was her grandfather's unwavering reply—one always made with eyes cast upward. Emmitt Jacobson could not lie to his granddaughter's face.

Now, Olive knew better.

Olive adored her grandfather, and as she grew, she did her utmost to make Jacobson's Station everything her grandfather wanted it to be. In the years that followed, the station blossomed, slowing with the onset of winter, and burgeoning with the warming, spring air. Content with her life and under her grandfather's instruction, Olive's duties increased as she grew, and soon, the little girl matured into a young woman capable of running all aspects of the station.

Those who sought respite there often complimented Olive on her many talents, finding themselves treated to an organized supply room, hearty, tasty meals, chicory-flavored coffee, crisp, clean linens, and soothing, evening melodies. Those who recognized the strength and beauty of fine horse flesh praised her grandfather for his corral of fully-broken horses, many of which had been gentled by Olive, herself. To all who passed through Humboldt Wells, the Jacobsons remained memorable.

And now, as her breakfast cooled and the coffee on the campfire steeped, Olive thought of those who'd passed through the station; the playful, smiling children who'd touched her heart; the young, married couples filled with plans and dreams; and the men, many of them mere boys, some running from circumstances, most running toward the unknown.

She closed her eyes, and her grandfather's voice whispered in her ear. "Memories only got what life you give 'em." How many times had she heard those words, believed those words?

"Lies, Grandpa. So many memories, so many lies."

Sweat trickled a trail, slithering down damp, sun-touched skin. It weaved along, the path interrupted by muscle and silver hair alike. The sensation caused a shiver. Unlike his two eldest sons, Ben still wore his shirt, although he'd undone all but the bottommost button. Despite the unseasonably warm weather, it was winter, after all.

He grunted softly as he drove his shovel into solid ground. Five feet away, Adam did the same, while Hoss trudged from the barn, toting a cross-piece of timber atop his shoulder.

"Adam," Hoss said as he heaved the fence post toward the ground, "how long you reckon it'll take Joe to notice we enlarged the corral?"

Adam drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and drew it across his brow. "I'd say he might take notice when he walks right into after a long night at the Bucket of Blood."

Hoss laughed. "Lordy, I'd do his chores and yours for a week just ta see him stagger right smack inta one of these new poles!"

Ben failed to stop a bit of a smile. He didn't approve of excessive drinking, but the thought of Joe at home, of things returning to normal—whatever that might now be—lightened his heart, and for a moment, distracted him from the worry he still carried.

"Maybe," Hoss added between chortles, "while we're at it, we oughtta move the barn a couple a feet to the left."

"Lift away,"—Adam gestured grandly toward the barn—"Bigger Brother. Lift away!"

Ben's smile widened, and Hoss's pained expression turned that smile into a chuckle. But it was the sudden grin on his son's face that made Ben turn around—Joe Cartwright was riding into the yard.

The four-foot fence post in Hoss's grip fell to the ground and, hands on his hips, he blindly stepped over the wood and walked toward the clearing. Squinting into the sun, Adam shielded his eyes and propped his shovel against the gate.

Ben's chest tightened as the unthinkable vanished from where he'd hidden it days ago. Joe was safe. Joe was home.

As they gathered together, Ben studied his youngest son's face and found an odd combination of pride and apology in the young man's expression. Dismounting, Joe was met with shoulder slaps and handshakes, and it was after Adam and Hoss's greetings that Ben came face to face with Joe.

Hand extended, Ben stepped closer. Joe smiled with uncertain eyes.

"It's good to see you, son."

Joe accepted his father's hand, his smile hopeful before fading. "Pa, I didn't finish the swing. I came across something I thought you should know."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Different. The only word that fit his youngest son's mood was different.

When Joe arrived back at the ranch, it was Hoss who'd seen him first, and fifteen minutes later, Ben, Hoss, and Joe gathered inside at Ben's desk to, as Hoss put it, "Start way back at the beginnin'."

And start, he did.

Ben couldn't help it—his attention focused less on the story and more on his son's demeanor. He listened as Joe traced his steps from the morning he'd left the house until his Virginia City discussion with Galen, and what struck Ben most was the excitement in Joe's voice—something he'd missed since the day Clay Stafford rode away. It was all Ben could do to pay attention to the story of the mysterious stranger.

Adam's voice suddenly drew Ben from his thoughts.

"I must admit, Joe," Adam said, resting back against the edge of Ben's desk, "none of this struck a nerve until you mentioned this woman asking specifically about the Ponderosa."

"No." Hoss shook his head. "My nerves was standin' on edge clean back to Joe sayin' a little gal was roamin' around out there all by herself. You gotta admit, that there's mighty peculiar." He folded his arms, leaned against the bookcase, and crossed his legs at his ankles. "We've had folks make use of our line shacks before, 'n' some of 'em even left payment behind for the food they used 'n' such. But ain't a one ever filled the wood box and stocked the shelves plumb full."

Adam tugged at his earlobe. "Can't argue with you there, Hoss."

Hoss turned his focus onto Joe. "'N' you say Tobias said this gal paid cash for all them supplies?"

Joe nodded. "That's right. He said she visited his store three times and paid cash for everything."

The sound of his sons' voices united in discussion washed over Ben. Before Joe's journey, too many days had been spent on edge. Polite conversation had only angered Joe, and Ben knew all too well how concerned Hoss and Adam had been, how they, too, worried they might lose a brother.

"Why a line shack?" Adam asked, righting himself. "I mean, if you're flush with cash, why not stay in Virginia City? Why rough it on the mountain, especially in winter?"

Joe snapped his fingers. "Exactly!"

Ben sank back in his chair. "Joe, you said Coonskin spent a little time with the woman."

"That's right."

"Old Coonskin's a fine judge of character." Tapping the arms of his chair, Ben continued, "And you say he didn't seem to sense anything odd."

Joe settled his hands on his waist. "He said he found it strange that a little gal was holed up on the mountain, that she seemed nice enough, but she was tight with conversation. And he couldn't get over what she was wearing."

Hoss huffed. "Yeah, imagine that . . . A gal wearin' a wolverine coat."

"That's our first clue." Adam leaned forward and pressed his palms against the desk. "No one in Virginia City deals in wolverine pelts. For that matter, I've never heard of anyone dealing in them. Those animals are elusive, vicious, and as far as their size, why, it would take two or three hides to make one coat for an adult."

Ben shook his head. "It is rare to see a wolverine in this area, but there have been sightings from time to time. And just because no one sells the skins doesn't mean someone couldn't have trapped the animals, tanned the hides, and made the coat themselves."

"Pa's right, Adam," Hoss said softly. "Seems to me the real clue's them initials on her shirt. What'd you say they were, Joe?"

"An E and a J is what Galen said. Pa, you know a woman with those initials?"

Ben mashed his lips together, searching his memory. "No one." Shaking his head slightly, he sat forward and leaned his elbows against his desk. "There are nicknames and shortened, proper first names, but I can't recall a woman with a surname beginning with a J."

Hoss folded his arms across his chest and stroked his chin with one finger. "Little brother, what exactly did Galen say about that shirt?"

Ben saw his youngest's eyes glistened with excitement, and he had to remind himself they had a bit of a mystery to solve.

"Galen said she wore a plaid shirt with plain pockets on her chest." Joe blushed. "Er . . . I mean on the shirt."

Adam grinned and winked at Hoss.

Joe continued. "He said the shirt had a turned-down collar and buttons all the way down the front and cuffs on the sleeves and . . . Wait. It could have been a man's shirt!"

Hoss aimed a pointed finger at Joe. "That's right. Maybe Pa oughtta be thinking of a man with them initials."

Adam nodded. "My brothers, the detectives. What about it, Pa? **Now** , do those initials ring a bell?"

Ben steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. His sons, running a list of names of their own, waited silently. Moments later, he dropped his hands to the desktop.

"No bells. Not even a whistle. I can't for the life of me figure out why a young woman associated with those initials would be hiding out on the Ponderosa and asking questions about us."

The savory aroma of venison stew swirled its way to the second floor. Earlier that day, when Joe rode into the yard, Hop Sing wasted no time in starting one of the youngest Cartwright's favorite meals, simmering the meat with carrots, onions, potatoes, and two crock of heavily salted beef broth.

Upstairs, Joe lounged comfortably on his bed. It was good to be home.

Home. Until that instant, his feelings of abandonment, the doubt and confusion they'd bred, had all but vanished. He realized, with a soft chuckle, that it had occurred the moment the Ponderosa house had come into view. And now, with the curious stranger lingering about, Joe had purpose . No, it wasn't just that. He was home, where he belonged. And his father and brothers had welcomed him without question or reservation.

Joe hurried the moment dinner was called—he'd eaten more than his share of beans, biscuits, and hard tack on his partial grand swing. As the Cartwrights gathered around the table, Joe ladled a bowlful of stew as Hoss and Adam's debate continued.

"But Adam, she didn't just ask about the Ponderosa or its owners." Hoss snatched four rolls from the bread basket and then reached for the butter bowl. "She asked about Pa. She asked about Ben Cartwright."

Adam dropped his napkin onto his lap and picked up his glass. "Well, that's what Galen says."

Joe's spoon halted just inches from his lips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Take it easy, Joe," Adam said. "I know Galen's an honest young man, but isn't it possible he may have embellished what this woman said? That he added Pa's name to his retelling? I mean, he thought she was a he."

"Aw, Adam," Hoss said, swallowing hard to empty his mouth, "you know Galen ain't too bright 'bout some things. Could be that little gal was tryin' to look like a he when she was in town. You know, so as not to stir up any questions 'bout a gal on the mountain in the winter. As for Galen, he's got a mind like one of them daggertypes."

Joe giggled openly and Ben disguised his smirk with his napkin.

Adam spoke with raised eyebrows. "You mean daguerreotypes."

"That's what I said," Hoss replied as he grabbed another roll from the platter. "Daggertype. Ain't likely he'd do none of that bellishin'."

"You mean . . . Oh, never mind."

Ben cleared the chuckle from his throat. "Hoss is right, Adam. Galen's memory for certain details is a wonder, and if he said this man—woman— asked about me by name, then I believe she did just that."

Joe rested his fork against his plate and looked intently at his father. "Pa, there's someone lurking around on the Ponderosa, someone of means, someone asking about the ranch and about you. What are we gonna do about it?"

Ben filled his lungs and arranged his thoughts. Adam, Hoss, and Joe sat quietly, accustomed to their father's method of formulating a plan. Truth be told, each man at the table had a strategy in mind, and when Ben started to speak, they listened eagerly.

"Well, first, I think Adam should-"

A knock at the door stopped Ben's reply, and all heads turned toward the sound. Hop Sing appeared from the kitchen, padding quickly to the door.

"Hello, Hop Sing. Is Ben in?"

"Oh, yes, Mister Taft. Family eating dinner. This way, please," Hop Sing replied, nodding as he showed the shopkeeper to the dining room.

Ben was on his feet, his hand extended, and Tobias welcomed the gesture with a smile.

"Tobias, what brings you out this way? Please, sit and have a bite to eat."

"No, thank you, Ben. Mildred will have my evening meal waiting for me when I return."

"Well, coffee then?"

"I reckon I could use a cup, thank you."

Tobias nodded at each of Ben's sons and then took a seat next to Hoss. He dipped his head when Hop Sing returned from the kitchen with a cup and saucer, and as his coffee was poured, Tobias leaned in closer to the table.

"Ben, I reckon you know by now that Joe came to see me."

"Yes, Joe's told us about your conversation."

"I didn't realize at the time that Joe was studyin' on that stranger. Later on, I ran into Galen. I was on my way to the barber for a haircut. Mildred said it was time."

Ben nodded, his patience wavering.

"Well, Galen said Joe'd gone to see him, too. Said he told Joe the man was askin' about you, Ben."

"That's right."

Tobias sipped his coffee as the Cartwrights waited yet again.

"Tobias," Ben said, "what brings you out here tonight?"

Tobias set his cup atop the saucer. "Well, I remembered something else, sort of, and Joe told me to let him know if I did, so I rode right out, even though it is practically my dinner time."

Joe's breath hitched in the back of his throat. "What did you remember?"

"It's not exactly what I remembered. See, after I left Galen, I had lunch at the Inn, made a deposit at the bank, and then I went to Sing Lee's laundry to pick up my shirts. That's when I saw him. The man, I mean. The stranger." Tobias lifted his cup to his lips and slurped.

"Tobias," Ben said, "what are you here to say?"

"The stranger was coming out of Sing Lee's laundry. Sing Lee walked him to the door, and as I approached the shop, I heard Sing Lee tell the stranger to return on Thursday to pick up the laundry."

Joe snapped his fingers. "That's it! Hoss, you're gonna have to do my chores on Thursday."

"Huh?"

Joe nodded as he spoke. "I'm gonna be hiding in the shadows across the street from Sing Lee's Laundry. When our stranger comes for that laundry, I'll be waiting."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Each of the Cartwright sons carried with them the ethics Ben held so dear. Thursday morning, as they settled at the table for a pre-dawn breakfast, Joe fiddled with his words, worried he'd let his father down.

"Pa, I know you wanted the grand swing finished and the ledgers accurate in time for the tax assessor. I logged half of the markers and made repairs along the way, and I wouldn't have stopped if it hadn't been for-"

"Joseph," Ben interrupted, "the swing has to be finished."

Even now, the sound of his given name could make Joe fidget. "Pa, I-"

"Hank left an hour ago."

Joe closed his mouth and his gaze softened.

Ben smiled. "Hoss spoke to Hank last night." He lifted the platter of eggs and offered it to Joe. "He took one of our new hands with him. With the progress you already made, the swing will be finished in plenty of time."

"Thanks, Pa." Joe's shoulders relaxed. "I know you wanted one of us to make the swing, but Hank's a good man. He'll get it done."

"Yes, he will." Ben's voice became somber. "And thanks to you, we know someone is asking about the ranch and about me." He pressed his palms against the table. "Linda Lawrence, Colonel Bragg . . ." Ben shook his head. "Seems I've made some enemies along the way, and we've seen what greed and vengeance can do to people. People we thought we knew. And this, this stranger, someone we don't know."

He took a deep breath. "Adam will ride into Virginia City with you, Joe." He paused, expecting an argument from his youngest son. He was about to get one when Adam spoke.

"I've got to see our lawyer about the timber contracts," Adam said, "and I have an appointment at the bank after."

Ben nodded. "We don't know when this woman will return to Sing Lee's, so Joe, you'd better plan on a long day. Adam will be nearby should you need him. Hoss and I will be here, helping the hands with the horses. We've got five days left before the army comes for them. Now let's have breakfast and get started."

Virginia City's main street bustled in the midmorning sunshine. Rewriting the timber agreement yet again had taken longer than expected, and Adam's thoughts had never been far from Joe and the mysterious woman. Crossing the street, Adam tipped his hat to three elderly widows gossiping as they hurried on their way.

His step was spry as he walked from the dusty street and onto the sidewalk just outside the Virginia City Bank. He reached for the doorknob just as the door swung open, and once again, he tipped his hat, this time to a woman and her two small children as they passed. Inside, Adam balked at the crowd waiting for each of the two tellers. Timing was everything. He stepped in line and waited.

His turn imminent, Adam glanced again at the check in his hand. The Cartwrights regularly sold horses to the army, and to Ben's dismay, they still insisted on a good-faith down payment. To Adam and his father, it was unnecessary, but the military stood firm.

"Good morning, Mister Cartwright."

Adam looked up to see the teller's smiling face. He stepped forward and slipped the check through the bars. "Just a deposit this morning, Otis."

"Sure thing," the young man said, stamping the paper before dipping his pen to sign his ledger. "You sure that's all?"

"Yes," Adam replied. "Thank you, and my best to your folks." As he walked toward the door, Adam fluttered the paper, engrossed in drying the ink. He was jolted from his thoughts when he collided with another patron.

"Pardon me," Adam said, "I wasn't watching-Zack Morton, long time, no see!"

"Adam Cartwright, as I live and breathe!"

The friends exchanged a handshake, and moments later were headed side by side to The Trail's End for lunch and a beer.

Zack Morton, a lanky man with salt and pepper hair and several days' worth of beard, had known Adam Cartwright since the two were six years old. The Mortons, Robert, Eileen, and their son, Zack, had befriended Ben, Adam, and little Hoss Cartwright as the families traveled west with a wagon train. The Mortons had continued on to California, leaving the Cartwrights behind in Virginia City, and Adam and Zack heartbroken over the separation.

True to his word, Ben tried to stay in touch, but in those early days, letters traveling west often disappeared, and it wasn't until years later that Zack and his newly-widowed mother contacted Ben. With his help, Eileen Morton and her then twelve-year-old son, moved to San Francisco, and Adam accompanied Ben on several visits over the years.

Until Eileen's death, Zack, having a passion for leading settlers to the promise of prosperity, had been a successful wagon master. His mother's passing changed him, and he left his wagon train days behind. Now a driver for Wells Fargo, Zack and Adam crossed paths from time to time.

That morning, Adam learned Zack was awaiting the arrival of the afternoon run. Zack's next stop would be Carson City, then on to Hawthorne and back.

When their lunch arrived, the request went out for a second round of beer, and the waitress hurried back with the mugs. The Cartwrights were notoriously generous tippers and she'd been delighted when Adam and Zack sat at her table.

The old friends dined on roast beef sandwiches doused in thick, peppery gravy and potatoes cubed and browned in bacon drippings. Zack spoke of his latest adventures as a Fargo man, and Adam amused them both with a story about Hoss winning Bessie Sue Hightower's lunch at last week's Box Social. After ordering slices of strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert, Zack patted his stomach and settled back in his chair.

"Seems to me I recall hearing about a new addition to the Cartwright corral."

Adam slid his plate to the side. "Well, we're always adding stock of one breed or another. Care to be more specific?"

Zack grinned. "I was referring to stock of the two-legged variety. One theretofore unknown brother by the name of Clay."

A soft, low grunt rumbled in Adam's throat. He reached for his beer and drained the glass before responding to his curious friend. "Marie's first born stayed just long enough to realize he wasn't cut out for ranching and break Joe's heart."

Zack tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Adam said. "That was . . . blunt."

"Blunt, honest, and revealing."

Adam nodded. "Joe welcomed Clay without reservation. It was as if Clay's connection to Marie softened the void left by her death."

"Even after all these years?"

"Yes, even after all these years."

The waitress appeared with two slices of pie, and with a smile, she left the men to their discussion.

Fork in hand, Adam continued. "I think my father was caught up in the feeling as well."

"As I recall, Marie's death hit your pa hard. Real hard. Having Clay around was probably like . . . But I know your pa, and he must have had doubts."

"Yes and no. Hoss and I were the ones who convinced him to look into Clay's story—which was true—and from then on, Pa was all for inviting him into the family and the running of the Ponderosa."

Zack stabbed the last chunk of pie on his plate. "And?"

"And then Clay regaled Joe with stories of his past; roaming from place to place, all sorts of adventures. Most of them surrounded by pretty women and danger."

"Let me guess. Joe was drawn to a life with no constraints."

"You would be correct." Adam set his dessert plate atop his lunch plate. "I don't know for sure what happened, but one morning two months ago, Clay was gone, Pa was a wreck, and Joe . . . You can imagine."

"How's the kid now?"

Adam hesitated. "He went off on his own for a while. Just got home yesterday."

"And?"

"And, what?"

Zack picked a piece of rhubarb from his teeth. "I've known you a long time, Adam, and I can tell by your expression there's more."

Adam chuckled softly. "The kid went off to make a grand swing of the Ponderosa."

Zack nodded. "Tax time."

"That's right. On the way, Joe ran across the trail of a mysterious, young woman. Seems she'd been living in one of our line shacks and when she came upon people, she asked questions about my father. Oh, and get this. She fancies a wolverine coat."

Zack's brow creased. "Did you say wolverine?"

"I did at that," Adam scoffed.

Leaning forward, Zack folded his hands atop the table.

"I know that look, Zack Morton. Say what's on your mind."

"When I led wagon trains up north, we always went through a small town known as Humboldt Wells."

"Never heard of it."

"As a town, it isn't much. But it's essential to wagon trains running low on supplies." Zack shook his head. "Now, Adam, this is gonna sound crazy, but there was a gal, a pretty thing, lived in Humboldt Wells. I saw that little gal on more than one occasion wearing a wolverine coat."

"Really?"

"Well, it was more like the coat was wearin' her. A slip of a gal, she is. The coat was made for a big man. Belonged to her grandfather."

Adam believed in happenstance, but something gnawed at the back of his mind. "Just how far north is this Humboldt Wells?"

Zack was quick to answer. "Three hundred miles, give or take."

"That's a lot of miles. What's the girl's name?"

"Olive. Olive Jacobson. But I doubt it's the same girl, Adam. Olive's grandfather passed a while back, and he left her a small spread, a mercantile to run, and a corral of some of the finest horse flesh I've ever seen."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Adam waved as the Wells Fargo stage rolled down the street. He'd enjoyed spending time with his old friend—easy conversation hadn't changed over the years. Leaving his horse at the post, he stepped off the boardwalk, making the turn toward Sing Lee's laundry in the Chinese settlement just outside of Virginia City. As he walked, Zack's words churned in his mind.

Jacobson. The name hadn't conjured a face or a memory. Humboldt Wells.

No recollection from maps or tales from settlers over the years. And the distance between the small, wagon train stopover and Virginia City? Unlikely. Still, Adam pondered the odds of wolverine-wearing females near Virginia City, and his step quickened. He needed to find Joe.

Situated just beyond the Virginia City limits sat Sing Lee's Laundry. What the building lacked in width, it made up for in depth, and as Adam approached the town line, he wondered if he should look for Joe standing guard in the shadows outside, or indoors amid the large wash tubs, ranks of folding tables, and lines of clean, hanging laundry. When he rounded the corner, his decision was made for him.

"Psst. Over here."

Casually, Adam slowed his gait and glanced at the people making their way along the street. Ducking into the narrow walkway between two small shacks, he joined his brother.

"Joe, this is a bit much, don't you think?"

"No, Adam, I don't think."

Before sarcasm could form on Adam's lips, Joe continued.

"And you know what I mean!"

Adam snickered. "Any sign of our mystery girl?"

"No, not yet."

"Well," Adam said softly, " I have a little news."

The details Adam had learned from Zack brought a sparkle to Joe's eyes. "I told ya, Adam. Wolverine. A gal wearing wolverine. We gotta find out if Pa knows this Jacobson."

"Emmitt Jacobson."

"Yeah." Joe stepped forward and glanced up and down the street. "That name sound familiar to you?"

"No."

"What about-"

"Humboldt Wells? Never heard of it before today." Adam adjusted his hat. "But there are a lot of places I haven't heard of. Joe, we don't know for sure this woman's the one Zack mentioned."

Joe's posture gained attitude. "Oh, come on, Adam. How many gals you know walk around Virginia City wearin' wolverine? And what about the initials? EJ."

"About that,"—Adam pinched his bottom lip between two fingers—"I guess the girl could be wearing her grandfather's shirt."

Joe pointed out into the street. "You gotta ask Zack more questions."

"Can't. He's gone." Adam tucked his hands beneath his arms. "You want me to spell you for lunch?"

Joe's annoyance faded slowly. Grinning, he reached into his pocket and brandished a jagged piece of jerky. "You want some?"

Adam laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "I'll pass. I'm heading back to the Ponderosa. Pa needs to hear what Zack said."

"Right." Joe gnawed off a piece of the meat. "If the gal shows, I'll take her to Roy and send word to the ranch. If not, I'll be along once Sing Lee closes up shop."

Adam nodded. "I'll tell Pa. And, Joe . . . just because she's a female doesn't mean . . . well, any girl that can hold her own in the mountains in a Nevada winter . . . Boy, just be careful."

Four days later, the mystery continued, but with several new details. Wires had been sent and replies delivered, and the Cartwrights now felt that E.J. most likely stood for Emmitt Jacobson, the man who owned and ran the Humboldt Way Station and Mercantile. Correspondence with the recently appointed deputy in Humboldt Wells also revealed Emmitt had passed away just over a year ago, and that his granddaughter, Olive, had continued to run the station with the help of two longtime hands. The deputy also reported that Olive, just seventeen years of age, had taken off two months earlier, leaving behind a letter of instruction for the hands, but no reason for leaving and no details as to her destination.

Could the letter have been a forgery? Concerned for the young woman, the hands had done a bit of searching, finding nothing on the property to indicate foul play. In fact, the only thing they noted to be out of place was an opened, partially emptied trunk in the station's attic.

That trunk and Olive Jacobson were the topics of conversation as the Cartwrights finished their breakfast.

"The letter to the hands said, 'While I'm away', indicating she's planning to return." Joe reached for the platter of hotcakes. "That's the way I'd read it. Adam, don't you agree?"

"Well, it does sound as if she intends on going back to Humboldt Wells, but the fact that she left with no notice makes me wonder why."

"We ain't gonna know a thing till that little gal shows up again, 'n' how many more days can Joe get outta chores, standin' outside the laundry waitin' for her to do just that?"

"I'm sure Sing Lee will give him a job." Adam's eyes twinkled. "Maybe starch boy."

Adam and Hoss laughed and Joe feigned insult, but Ben simply stared into his coffee. He enjoyed a mystery as much as the next man and heaven knows he felt obligated to the wolverine girl, whoever she was, for giving Joe something to focus on besides his grief over Clay. But he didn't know Emmitt Jacobson or any other Jacobson, for that matter, and aside from spending a few days in their line shack, the girl hadn't done anything wrong. Yet something had led her to the Ponderosa, and Ben doubted her inquiries about its owner could have simply been curiosity.

The Cartwrights, with their substantial holdings, had dealt with their share of confidence men, land grabbers, and even a sinister female or two. The thought that Joe may have stumbled upon another person bent on the fall of the Ponderosa sat heavily in the pit of Ben's stomach.

Hoss snorted, and Ben was yanked from his thoughts.

"Can't you just see Joe shoulder-deep in lye soap, plungin' up 'n' down, up 'n' down with one of them dolly sticks?"

"And washing the drawers of the rich bankers."

The laughter erupted again, and this time, Joe's was the loudest, drawing Ben into the playful atmosphere at the table. The teasing continued, and Ben relaxed into his chair.

As he watched his sons, the conversation gradually slipped back to the mystery girl and the seemingly abandoned laundry she'd left behind.

"Joe, you can't spend all your time waitin' on that gal to show her face. What if she decided to move on or go back home?"

"Hoss is right, Joe," Adam agreed. "With nothing else to go on, we could send out a hundred men, and if that girl's bent on not being found, we won't find her."

Joe knew his brothers were right—it showed in his expression—and Ben wondered what that realization might bring.

"So you're saying we do nothing?" Joe asked. "We just let this woman wander around the Ponderosa doing who knows what?"

All eyes were on Ben as he ran his finger back and forth along the patterned tablecloth. His sons knew the action well—their father was weighing the situation.

"What we know for sure is very little. What we can do is very little, unless we find this girl. Finding her is next to impossible." His hand stilled, and Ben straightened in his chair. "I don't supposed she'll just up and pay us a visit anytime soo-"

"Mister Cartwright! Mister Cartwright!"

The panicked shouts were followed by chairs skidding, napkins tumbling, and anxious footfall. Adam was first to the front door, with Joe, Ben, and Hoss close behind. Rushing in from the kitchen, Hop Sing brought up the rear.

The door flew open and Hank, gasping for breath, steadied himself against the door frame.

"She's hurt . . . hurt bad. The girl, wolverine coat . . . in the southern section, down . . . in the arroyo." Hank winced and clutched the deep gash on his upper arm. "I lost my footing on the way down. It's a bone dry gully. Loose soil mixed with sand. Couldn't pull her out."

No time was wasted. Inside, Hop Sing tended Hank's arm, cleaning the wound and securing the ties of a bandage into place. Outside, Adam and Joe saddled the horses, and Hoss and Ben packed a wagon with ropes, bandages, blankets, and a bunkhouse mattress. Satisfied with their provisions, the Cartwrights and Hank rode out for the arroyo while Hop Sing made his way to Virginia City to fetch Doctor Paul Martin.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Days. She figured she'd been there for days.

Her head throbbed relentlessly, and begging did nothing to halt the swirling darkness. Several times she'd opened her eyes, midway at best, but the invasion of light left her stomach churning.

Bird song meant one thing—daylight. Confirmation would mean raising her eyelids, and that required strength she couldn't seem to muster.

A shiver crept from her shoulders to her legs. It might be morning, but the sun had yet to warm the air. If only she hadn't heard the fawn's desperate cries. If only she hadn't attempted a rescue. If only she hadn't shed her grandfather's coat before descending into the arroyo. Hindsight was fruitless. The abandoned fawn's cries had touched her deeply, and two days ago, Olive had strayed from the trail to Virginia City . . .

Dodging fallen branches, Olive dashed, sure-footed, through the massive pine trunks. A clearing in sight, she sped forward, the steady, high-pitched pleas growing louder.

"Mey, mey."

She recognized the sound; she'd heard it many times in the wooded areas surrounding her hometown of Humboldt Wells. As the wails grew louder, Olive scanned the open terrain. The arroyo lay just ahead, and she feared the fawn was trapped in the dry gulch below.

Rushing to the edge, her suspicions were confirmed. White spots against shades of honey and chestnut. A young fawn.

Olive, peering over the rim, spoke softly to the frightened animal. "Don't be afraid, little one."

Determined to scale the side of the rocky ravine, the deer repeatedly pawed the loose soil, gaining several small steps before inevitably sliding backward.

"I can see by your grit you're not badly hurt," Olive said. "In fact, you seem to be quite a fighter."

Taking stock of her options, Olive shed her cumbersome coat, draping it over a large, flat-topped rock.

"Mey, mey."

Olive turned and began the precarious path down into the arroyo. "Slow and easy," she whispered, her grandfather's familiar voice echoing in her mind.

Emmitt Jacobson had taught Olive many things, and three of them seemed to echo in her mind: quiet persistence reaps the plumpest trout, spirit defines the finest horse flesh, and vigilance makes the impossible possible. But as Olive climbed down the steep sides of the arroyo, clutching at rocks and anchoring her balance with sagebrush branches, she wondered if his lessons could tower above his lies.

"Mey, mey."

"I'm doing my . . . my best, little one," Olive called, laboring to find a foothold in the rocky surface.

After three attempts, Olive breathed a sigh. Her feet fixed firmly against a small outcropping of rock, her knees bent, she scanned left and right for her next stable handhold. "Slow and easy," she reminded herself.

And there it was. Without hesitation, fingertips stretched, a palm closed about a thick sage branch, and one foot braved freedom. Inches at a time, the steps repeated, and Olive soon found herself midway down the treacherous slant.

"Mey, mey, mey."

"That's right, little friend. I'm coming to help."

The sound of her voice had a calming effect—on Olive. She often talked to herself when her nerves were frazzled or her path unclear.

"Your mother spoke to herself, too," her grandfather had often said, "and I want it stopped!" Olive wondered if her grandfather ever regretted his demands, although now, she understood.

A startling sound yanked Olive from her thoughts. There was no mistaking what she'd heard.

A rattler.

Olive's spine tingled. Growing up in Humboldt Wells meant she knew all too well the consequences of a rattler bite. She knew to remain still, that the snake might eventually lose interest and slither away. She also knew snakes often played by their own rules.

Her chest ached for air—shallow breathing was not what her body demanded. Her grandfather said a rattler considered the slightest movement a threat, and in that moment, anchored precariously against the slope of the arroyo, a calming breath was out of the question.

The snake rattled again.

Camouflage favored the snake. Olive glanced left and then right. She lowered her eyes, straining to catch a glimpse of the struggling fawn—ten feet had never felt so high. Her eyes closed against the dizzying thoughts.

Another rattle.

Wide-eyed, Olive strained to pinpoint the danger. _Show yourself, you devil!_

The ground at her feet shifted as bits of dirt crumbled away. Olive gasped, and she clawed at the rocks and branches beneath her hands. Flakes of sandy soil wedged beneath her fingernails. She slipped.

The snake. Where was the snake?

The fabric of her shirt freed itself from her trousers and crept up her torso, exposing her skin.

"Mey, mey, mey."

Tears pooled as dry branches and jagged rock scraped her stomach. She clawed at the surface, desperate to halt her fall.

Fall. That's it. She had to fall.

Olive clenched her eyes, took a deep breath and, with a silent prayer, let go.

It took two precious seconds for her to plunge to the bottom of the ravine. The first two brought her a measure of peace amid the panic of the fall.

 _Mama, I'm sorry._

A shallow, rough ledge ripped the flesh of her right knee.

 _Grandpa, I forgive you._

Her body twisted, and her left hip smashed against thick-trunked sagebrush. Just before she landed in the dry gulch, a cloud shadowed her thoughts.

 _Why, Father, why?_

Pain. She'd never thought much about it—until now.

Her palms burned. Her stomach and chest stung. Without looking, she imagined the trails of blood drawn out of scraped skin as she slid over the sage branches.

She tried to bend her legs, and she cringed when torn skin on her knee separated.

Raising her head and shoulders, Olive cried out. Gritting her teeth, she fought to sit up, pressing chafed palms against the ground.

Stabbing pain shot from her left hip to her toes, and she collapsed, staring into the crystal blue sky.

"Mey, mey."

Her head jerked toward the sound—a movement Olive regretted instantly. Reaching with aching hands, she grabbed her head and gasped for breath.

The warm wetness in her right hand made her shiver. She didn't recall hitting her head in the fall, but looking at her hand, she knew it was bleeding.

Slowly, she turned her head toward the fawn's cries. "I told you"—Olive laughed at the irony—"I was coming . . . little one."

The fawn, still struggling to scale the steep embankment, ignored Olive's predicament. In fact, being so close to a human frightened the trapped animal, and moments later, that fear spurred the deer to newfound strength.

Injured and flat on her back, Olive watched as the fawn scampered upward, stumbled twice, and continued to the freedom and safety of the forest above.

"Well, that's a fine . . . uh . . . how do you do," Olive said softly, her head beginning to throb. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, hoping to smother her sudden nausea.

 _Breathe, Olive, breathe. That's it. In, out. In, out. Now think._

 _It's really not fair. That fawn, with its four legs, managed to fall into this ravine without getting hurt. And me? Oh, Grandpa, I know what you'd say. "Olive, you rushed, willy-nilly, over the edge of a ravine, just to rescue a fawn."_

Despite the pain coursing through her injuries, Olive's eyes grew heavy, and her grandfather's voice grew stronger.

 _"_ _I know that fawn's one of God's creatures, but girl, you've got to think before you put yourself in harm's way."_

 _But Grandpa, when something's trapped, when it seems there's no way out, it's bound to be frightened, and I can't bear to think one of God's own feeling that way when I might be able to help._

 _"_ _I hear you, child, and though it was a fool thing to do, I feel a measure of pride."_

Although her breathing was steady, each rise and fall of her chest brought twinges of pain. She forced her eyes open, staring again into the perfect, blue sky.

Defying her situation, Olive tried again to sit up. This time, she succeeded.

The first glimpse of her injuries stirred her nausea anew. She quickly lowered her shirt. Modesty took precedence—even in a ravine. She concentrated, instead, on her hands and her knee. The latter, bleeding freely from the gash running side-to-side, needed to be bandaged, and she cursed herself for having worn trousers instead of a skirt and petticoats.

Painful as it was to move her fingers, she slid two into her trouser pocket and freed a navy blue neckerchief. Tumbling unseen from the same pocket came two pieces of horehound candy.

Wincing with each movement, Olive tied the cloth around the gash on her knee. The effort exhausted her and increased the pounding in her head.

She laid, chafed palms up, against the ground. _Up. I have to get up._ She inhaled and held her breath. _One, two, thr . . ._ Pain seared across her hip, and she collapsed onto her back.

Tears flowed freely, her parched throat pleading for water. Moments later, slowly robbed of the blue sky above, Olive lay unconscious.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

She hadn't moved, hadn't moaned, hadn't opened her eyes.

They had called to the girl, hoping for some sign of consciousness, of life. Hoss watched from above as Adam and Joe slipped and slid their way down into the gully. Once at the bottom, Adam checked her pulse, pressing his fingertips against her slender neck.

"She's breathing," he shouted, removing his jacket. "But she's cold, Joe, real cold." He covered her to her waist, and then reached behind him for the jacket he knew Joe had shed. "That's a nasty cut on her knee." He draped the second jacket over her legs.

"It has to be her," Joe said.

Adam looked over his shoulder. "That wolverine pelt up there seems to make it so." He turned his attention back to the girl.

"You think she fell?"

Adam pulled his neckerchief from his pocket and carefully wrapped it around her wrist. "I don't think she flew down here."

Joe bristled. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, Joe, she fell. Either she was trying to get down here for some reason and lost her footing, or she was pushed."

"Pushed?"

"Those are the two most likely ways to end up unconscious at the bottom of a gully," Adam said, his canteen in his hand. He unscrewed the cap, poured water into a cloth, and gently dabbed the cuts on the girl's face. "What's taking Pa and Hank so long?"

Joe looked up the rise. "I'm sure the buckboard's slowing them down."

"Yeah, right."

While Adam looked after the girl, Joe watched from a distance. For more days than he could count, he'd come to think of the wolverine-wearing girl as an oddity—an oddity most likely bent on doing his family harm.

Why else would she hide in the mountains, creep from place to place, hide her identity, and ask questions about Ben Cartwright?

She intrigued him for all the same reasons. It wasn't often—in fact, it was never—that a young girl hid out for weeks in the snow-laden mountains of the Ponderosa. It was as if she had no place to be, no one to answer to. And it dawned on him—maybe she was free, just like Clay. Or maybe she was a prisoner to whatever she was after.

But what was she after? And how would it affect his family—the family he'd almost walked away from?

Joe shook his head. Had he answered his wanderlust, disappeared in the night with his brother, Clay, he'd never have learned about the girl. Had he allowed his selfish feelings to continue, Adam or Hoss would have taken the grand swing, and the girl may have continued, undetected, on her quest.

Joe was angry. He'd wanted to find her, question her, stop her from threatening what was his. But now, seeing her small, battered frame lying on the ground, he wasn't sure what to feel.

"Joe," Adam said. "Joe!"

Yanked from his thoughts, Joe stepped closer. "Sorry, I was . . . What do you need?"

"They're here. Pa and Hank. Didn't you hear Hoss yelling?"

Joe ignored Adam's question and stared at the girl. Looking past her bruises and cuts, Joe realized she was lovely. He wondered about her eyes. Would they be warm and charming like her face, or would they radiate of some devious plan against the Cartwrights?

Tethered loosely at a cluster of brush, Sport, Cochise, and Chubb marked the area of descent to the injured girl. Ben and Hank rolled up in the buckboard, and Hoss quickly emerged from just over the rim of the arroyo.

As he straightened and stood on firm ground, Hoss leaned slightly and cupped his hands at his mouth. "Pa 'n' Hank just rolled up," he yelled into the deep ravine. Turning, he hurried to the back of the wagon, passing his father and Hank on the way.

"How did you find her so quickly?" Ben asked.

"The coat."

"The what?"

"The wolverine coat." Hoss pointed to the mound of black and white fur lying on the a large rock. "Must've shed it 'fore she fell."

Ben glanced at the infamous coat as he crossed to the back of the buckboard.

"Here, Pa." Hoss handed a length of rope to his father. "Adam 'n' Joe went down. Said the little gal's unconscious. Looks like her leg might be busted."

Grabbing the narrow board and another generous length of rope, Hoss hurried back to the rim with Ben close behind.

Hank, hugging his injured arm to his chest, watched as Hoss and Ben secured the stretcher with the lines. Hoss tested each knot while Ben hitched one rope to Chubb's saddle and the other to the trunk of a sturdy tree.

Hank squatted next to Hoss. "Why's your pa usin' two ropes?"

"This here arroyo's bone dry." Hoss yanked on the final knot. "Adam and Joe pert near slid the whole way down."

"Reckon that's what happened to that gal down there?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Hank nodded, looking down into the ravine.

"Ready, Pa?" Hoss asked, lifting the stretcher as he stood.

"Ready," Ben replied. "Hank, come over here. We'll use Chubb to haul the stretcher back up. For now, keep him still."

Ben handed Chubb's reins to Hank, and then joined Hoss near the rim.

"Hoss, this ground's primed to crumble. Be careful. No one down there needs a landslide and we don't need you going headfirst over the edge."

"Yes, sir."

Hoss lowered the stretcher slowly. Down below, small rocks and clumps of dried brush heralded its arrival. Twice, Adam, arms extended in anticipation, was forced to duck and weave to avoid being pummeled by the debris. Several feet away, Joe shielded the injured girl, leaning overtop her face and torso.

Adam caught the lower edge in his hands and settled the stretcher next to the girl. He and Joe worked in tandem, lifting her into position. Mindful of visible injuries, it was the unseen that concerned them both, and the men's speed was not hindered by their gentleness.

Joe removed his jacket from her legs, bunched it together, and slipped it beneath her head. Using short lengths of rope, Adam and Joe secured her legs to the board. Another cord held her tightly at the waist.

"Adam," Joe said softly, "she hasn't moved a muscle. You think she's bleedin' inside? Maybe has one of those concussions?"

"I'm no doctor, Joe. But I do know she's been down here for a while. And although it's not that cold right now, it has been these past few nights." Adam brushed a wisp of her hair from her forehead. "See that cut above her eye? The blood's not just dry, it's already scabbing over." He returned to checking the ties of the ropes. "There's no telling how long she's been here, hurt, cold, without water or food."

"Is she gonna die?"

"I don't know, Joe." Adam stood and took hold of one end of the stretcher. "Let's get her out of here."

Hop Sing placed a freshly-sliced loaf of bread on the table. Satisfied that the evening meal was ready, he called to Adam and Hoss. "Dinner ready. Be sure to save some for Little Joe and father."

"Joe'll be in soon as he puts up the horses, Hop Sing," Hoss said as he took his seat.

Adam opened his napkin and set it on his lap. "And I'll take a plate up to Pa when I'm finished."

"Hop Sing make good broth. When little missy wake up, broth be ready. Good thing she here now. Keep friends close and enemies closer."

"Huh?"

"General Sun Tzu, wise man from ancient China. He say keep friends close," he stopped and pointed toward the staircase, "and enemies closer."

"Good advice," Adam said, reaching for the platter of pork chops.

"Enemy? That's a little harsh, ain't it?" Hoss stabbed his fork into a boiled potato. "We don't know for sure what that little gal was plannin' or is she even was plannin' something."

Adam raised his cup, and Hop Sing filled it with fresh coffee. "You're both right, but in her condition, and with one of us holding bedside vigil at all times, I don't think she poses an imminent threat."

"An immy what?"

Adam's lips curled. "Imminent. It means pending, about to happen."

"Well, imminent aside, Joe and I were talkin' before he went out to tend the stock." Hoss scooped another generous portion of potatoes onto his plate. "We know she ain't in no shape to do anything now, but didja ever consider that little gal might not be as alone as we think?"

Adam hesitated, letting the notion sink in. "There's no evidence that anyone's with her."

Hoss pointed with his empty fork. "But it would explain how a little bitty thing like her made it all these weeks in the mountains."

"You don't think a woman could do it on her own?"

Hoss shook his head. "She'd have to be **_some_** kinda woman."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The thick pine door whined softly as Hoss stepped into the room. His father sat, head tilted to one side, asleep in the chair next to the bed. Hoss crossed the room, mindful of the two creaky floorboards along the way. Pausing, his palms rested against the bed's footboard.

He looked at the unconscious girl, covered from shoulders to toes by a block-patterned quilt—the quilt his mother, Inger, had made during her journey west. Reaching down, he ran a fingertip along the fine needlework, and his muscles tensed.

Hoss frowned. He'd never deny warmth to a living being, but the thought of his mother's quilt comforting someone seemingly intent on causing his family harm was unsettling. But Hoss had learned at a tender age that perception was temporary, at best. His father had schooled him and his brothers in the proven adages that "looks can be deceiving" and "things are not always as they seem."

Back at the arroyo, Hoss had been the one to guide the stretcher over the rim, and in the flurry that followed, he'd barely looked at the injured girl. Once he and his father had settled her in the buckboard, Hoss had returned to the rim to see to Adam and Joe's safe ascent. By the time the Cartwright brothers stood side by side, Ben and Hank had driven the buckboard halfway home.

And now, in the bedroom, Hoss's eyes traveled the length of the bed and back, stopping at the rise and fall of the girl's chest. She looked delicate, but then, most young ladies seemed so to a man of Hoss's stature. Despite her disheveled hair and the bruises blossoming about her face, he couldn't help but notice her natural beauty. For a brief moment, he considered they'd met—the curve of her chin, the wisps of blonde hair, the fullness of her lips; they all seemed familiar somehow.

She was Joe's mysterious girl, or so they assumed. But just what had she done? As far as they knew, she hadn't broken any laws, hadn't hurt anyone, hadn't spread tales against the family. Despite the unknown, Hoss was glad Doctor Martin had said she'd recover.

Studying her face, he overlooked his father's quiet awakening, and when Ben spoke softly, Hoss startled.

"She's lovely, isn't she?"

"Wha?" Hoss blushed as he released the footboard and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Oh, yeah, I reckon so."

"I must have dozed off." Ben sat forward and coaxed a kink from his neck. "Is it six o'clock already?"

Hoss continued to stare at the girl.

"Hoss?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Hop Sing's got your plate in the oven."

Ben stood, stretched his back, and stepped next to his son. "She hasn't moved a muscle."

"Doc Martin said the sooner she wakes up, the better."

Ben nodded. "That's a nasty bump on the side of her head. And we don't know how long she was trapped in the gully."

Hoss nodded absentmindedly. "She's a slip of a thing, ain't she?" he whispered. Immediately, he felt the comforting weight of his father's hand against his shoulder.

"She is, Hoss, but if she is the mysterious girl we've been looking for, she endured weeks on the mountain. She's stronger than her size would indicate."

"Pa, I don't see how she can be anyone **_but_** the mystery gal. If that wolverine coat we found ain't proof enough, how 'bout the fact that a handful of horehound candy fell outta the pockets when Joe tossed it in the buckboard?"

"I think you're right, Hoss, but until we talk to her, we can't be one hundred percent sure."

Hoss let out a breathy sigh. "I guess you're right, Pa."

"And Hoss," Ben added, "we will listen to all she has to say."

Hoss nodded and settled into the bedside chair. "Reckon she'll be hungry and thirsty when she comes to."

Ben smiled. "I'll ask Hop Sing to send up a fresh pitcher of water, but remember, Doctor Martin said nothing to eat except broth."

"Yes, sir. Water, broth," Hoss laced his fingers and placed his hands in his lap, "and some answers."

 _He made it. After all that, that fawn made it out. But why can't I move?_

 _I'm confused . . . There was a . . . a rattler!_

 _Falling! I'm falling! No! Please, no!_

 _So far down. Oh, it hurts. The ground . . . so hard._

 _I don't understand. It's warm now. But I was cold. So cold . . ._

"Easy there."

 _Who . . . The snake? The way of a serpent on a rock . . . He speaks. My eyes. Must . . . open my . . . eyes._

"Ain't nothin' to be afraid of."

 _The voice, again. Open! I won't let it!_ "No," she called out, her eyes wide with fear. "I won't, I won't be tricked." Her head rocked from side to side. "Stay away."

With gentle hands, she was pressed back against the mattress.

"Ya gotta stop thrashin' around, little gal. Give yourself a chance to wake up. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

"Let me go!" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. She blinked, hoping to bring the faceless voice into focus.

"If'n you stay put, I will let go."

Too weak to continue the struggle, she conceded. "Please," she implored, tears welling, "le . . . let me . . . go."

He released her shoulders. "Now then, just relax." He straightened the quilt, tucking it beneath her chin.

Her vision clearer, she looked up at the large man with the gentle, blue eyes.

"I promise," he said softly as he reached for the pitcher on the bedside table, "ain't no one gonna hurt ya."

Watching as he poured a glass of water, she realized she believed him, though she wasn't quite sure why.

"I reckon you must be thirsty." The man leaned closer, extended his hand, and then reconsidered. "Reckon it'd be all right if I was to help you set up a bit?"

She hesitated, but the kindness in his eyes bred trust. She nodded.

Slipping his hand beneath her shoulders, he gently lifted. Holding the tilted glass, he watched as she sipped and swallowed.

"Easy now." He pulled the glass away and lowered her head to the pillow. "The doc said to take it nice 'n' slow."

"The doc?"

"Doctor Martin." He set the glass on the table and sank back into the chair. "He tended your injuries after we-"

"How long have I been here?" she asked, her eyes darting around the room. "I . . . I don't know how I got here."

"One of our hands found you in the arroyo."

Her eyebrows lifted.

"We raised you out 'n' brought you here. You were hurt real ba-"

"I fell." The words conjured a dizzying feeling.

She closed her eyes. "There was a . . . a fawn trapped at the bottom. I climbed down." Her eyes flew open and once again, met his. "I was halfway there, and then I heard it." Panic shadowed her face. "A rattlesnake. I couldn't hold still . . . couldn't hold on."

"Easy now," he said, patting the quilt atop her arm.

"It was daylight, and then it was . . . night. And it was so cold, even when the sun rose again." Tears trickled down her cheeks. "My head hurt so bad, and I couldn't move."

The man sat forward, leaning over the frightened girl. "None of that matters now. We brought you here, Ole Hank, my pa, and my brothers and me. You're safe."

She shivered. "No, it can't be," she thought. Wiping her tears, she winced as she turned her sprained wrist.

"Careful," he said. "Doc Martin said it ain't broke, but it's gonna hurt like the dickens for a bit."

Her body stiffened. "You said I'm safe here."

"That's right."

Her eyes pierced his. "Where is here?"

He hesitated, drawn to her glare. "My family's ranch, the Ponderosa."

The color faded from her cheeks. _No! It wasn't supposed to happen like this!_ Her breathing grew rapid.

Fear. Hoss had expected confusion, even agitation, but suddenly, the girl seemed filled with fear. "Ma'am? Is there something I can do?"

The voice, filled with concern, was muffled by her own thoughts. Her eyes darted from side to side. Panic shook her core.

The man was on his feet, leaning over her, one hand against the mattress, the other on the headboard. "What is it?" he asked. "You hurtin' someplace?"

She held her breath and, for what seemed like the first time, she looked at the man, at his large frame. She gasped.

Hoss drew back, straightened, and swallowed. "Ma'am," he said softly, "we can fetch the doc back out again. It ain't no trouble. I'll send-"

"No," she stated, shrinking against the mattress. She tugged on the quilt and winced aloud. "I'm . . ." She squared her jaw. "I don't need a doctor. I need to find . . . I need to find my way home."

"I'm afraid you ain't in no condition to find nothin' just yet. And like I said before, you got no reason to be afraid." Hoss folded his arms across his chest. "Must be a long time since you ate. I'll have some broth brought up. Hop Sing does all the cookin' and he makes mighty tasty broth."

Hoss took two steps toward the bedroom door, stopped, and turned. "Well now, I reckon I done forgot my manners. We ain't been properly introduced. My name's Hoss. Hoss Cartwright."

He waited patiently for a polite reply, but the girl only stared.

"I can't," she thought. "I'm not ready." She trembled. "The Ponderosa, Ben Cartwright . . . I can't be here. Not yet. I-"

"Ma'am," Hoss said, moving back to the bed, "you sure you don't need the doc?"

She shook her head, stalling as she calmed herself. "No," she said softly, "I think . . . I just need to-"

The bedroom door opened, and Ben entered, carrying a tray from the kitchen. "Well, now," he said, "you are awake. We heard voices, and Hop Sing insisted I bring this to you right away."

Hoss took the tray from his father and set it atop the dresser.

Ben smiled down at the girl. "I'm sure my son has told you how you've come to be here. My name is Ben. Ben Cartwright."

The girl gasped. She clutched the quilt to her chest, her breath coming in short bursts.

"Easy, now," Ben said, reaching for her shoulder. "Hoss, I think you'd better send Joseph for the doctor."

Before Hoss could leave the room, the young woman fainted.

During the rescue in the arroyo, Joe had acquired a rather nasty gash on his arm—something he'd kept to himself until they'd arrived back at the ranch. He'd balked when his father had insisted on tending to the injury. Joe wanted nothing more than to keep watch over the girl in the upstairs bedroom. He'd even raised his voice when Adam agreed that he should rest and then take the third shift sitting with the girl.

Now, being the fastest rider, Joe agreed without hesitation to fetch Doctor Martin back to the ranch. The sooner the girl could be questioned, the better. As he rode the trail toward Virginia City, Joe had no doubts. The wolverine jacket, a female wearing trousers, the letters E and J on her shirt pocket, the horehound candy—it had to be her, and Joe was determined to find out why she'd been lurking on the Ponderosa.

He pressed his thighs against Cochise, and the paint's neck pulsed even faster. Hoss said the girl passed out, and bringing the doctor back was the first step toward getting answers.

The turn-off for Virginia City lay just ahead, and Joe he rounded the bend, he caught sight of a familiar buggy coming in his direction. He smiled and rode up to the meet the driver.

"Doc," Joe said as he reined Cochise to a stop, "I was just comin' to get you. It's that gal, the one we found in the gully. We need you at the house."

Paul Martin nodded. "I was on my way to the McCain place. Sally invited me to dinner."

Paul gathered the reins and looked up at Joe. "You go on over there and let Sally know I'll be late. I'll see you back at the Ponderosa."

Reluctantly, Joe waved his agreement and started for the McCain farm. For now, the mystery would have to wait.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

The curtains fluttered and the air smelled of pine and roses. Standing next to the open window at the end of the upstairs hallway, Hoss quietly pled his case.

"I think I should stay with that little gal, Pa. I ain't sayin' it's your fault, but ya gotta admit, it sure seems like she lost her breath when you mentioned your name.

"I talked to her, Pa," Hoss continued. "Got her to take a bit of water. I think she was startin' to trust me. Might be best if it's me she wakes up to. You know, a familiar face."

Of one thing, Ben was certain. Hoss had been a comfort to the girl—waking in an unfamiliar place, injured, with a stranger, and a man at that, standing watch. It had to be frightening; confusing, at best. And when Ben had entered the room, the girl was speaking calmly—maybe his son was right.

"All right, Hoss. You sit with her until Paul arrives. If she comes to, keep her as quiet as you can." Ben started for the stairs. "Could be she's got a concussion. That would explain her fainting so suddenly." _Or, she heard my name and she's got something to hide._

Hoss watched as his father turned the corner at the top of the staircase. He scratched his head—the girl had some explaining to do just as soon as she was stronger.

For as long as she could remember, Olive Jacobson had dreaded darkness. Being trapped in the arroyo hadn't helped that fear, but now, with her eyes closed and her mind racing, darkness seemed her only friend.

Although the Cartwrights had moved from the bedroom and into the hallway, she'd heard most of what had been said. The one called Hoss was right—she had lost her breath the moment the silver-haired man introduced himself as Ben Cartwright. But Hoss was also wrong. He'd told his father they had to show her they could be trusted. Olive didn't know yet if she would ever trust anyone on the Ponderosa.

 _I remember what you said, Grandpa. "Nothing good was ever learned from eavesdropping."_ Olive hated going against her grandfather's learned lessons, and she knew he'd be disappointed in her for faking the fainting spell, but she needed time to think, time to plan. _I'm sorry, but you were wrong._

Aware the doctor would arrive eventually, she continued her ruse. It wasn't difficult—as a child, she'd often resorted to feigning sleep when her mother and grandfather had one of their arguments, loud, full of insults, and rarely followed by compromise or apology. Oddly enough, her eavesdropping had proved most informative on what had started as an ordinary night, just twenty months ago.

It was on the day after Emmitt Jacobson's sixty-fifth birthday that his granddaughter, Olive, had first admitted the change in him. Misplacing a favorite clay pipe or forgetting why he ventured to the bedroom was one thing, but neglecting to don a jacket in the face of a blustery wind before heading to the corral for no apparent reason was not so easily credited to aging. For weeks, she'd let more and more pass, shrugging off her grandfather's forgetfulness, making excuses for his sudden mood changes, and convincing herself there were acceptable reasons for his unusual behavior. But that night, with dusk blanketing the way station, Olive had no choice—something was wrong with Emmitt Jacobson . . .

"Grandpa!" Olive had shouted into the fierce wind. "Grandpa, you forgot your jacket!" Standing in the entrance to the way station, she tugged on the thick pine door, the storm threatening to yank it from her grip. "What are doing? Grandpa!"

Emmitt was relentless, pressing on against the wall of wind. He tucked his head against his shoulder, his hands shielding his eyes from thrashing leaves and biting sand as he tottered and lurched, his path wavering from side to side.

"Grandpa! Come back inside!"

Emmitt reached the corral gate and gripped the uppermost rail. Olive watched as he fumbled with the latch, and she knew he'd be cursing his aching fingers as well as the iron pin he was trying to slide.

"Grandpa!" she called into the howling wind. "I'm coming, Grandpa!" She dashed back inside the station, swiped her grandfather's wolverine coat from his chair, and rushed outside, pulling the coat on as she ran. Before she reached him, the corral latch surrendered, and the gate flew open, banging against the fence beyond. Her grandfather stumbled.

Olive stopped in her tracks, gasping as he caught himself on the nearest wooden post. Sprinting into the wind, she yelled, "Grandpa! What are you doing?" She lurched forward, alighting next to the determined old man. "We've got to close the gate," she shouted, her hands gripping the rail. "The horses! We'll lose the horses!"

Fighting against the gale, she dug her heels into the dirt, tucked her chin against her chest, and pressed against the corral gate. It took every ounce of strength she could muster, but she was able to secure the latch before any of the livestock escaped.

The wind was harsh. Gripping the fence railing, she pulled herself toward her grandfather, stopping twice to brush the hair from her eyes.

"Grandpa, we've got to get back inside!" she cried, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Luckily Emmitt, a sizable man and strong for his age, gave no resistance. Seconds later, they crossed the threshold to the station, and before Olive could bolt the front door, Emmitt disappeared down the hallway.

She removed the coat and flung it against a chair. Staggered by his behavior, she started after him, smoothing her hair into place as she mumbled her disbelief. "Grandpa, we need to talk."

A familiar creaking made her shake her head—her grandfather was climbing the stairs at the back of the house. "Grandpa, where are you going?"

She hurried to catch up, amazed he'd already disappeared into one of the bedrooms off the upstairs hallway. She peered into the first room, her room, and found he hadn't gone inside. The second room was Emmitt's, and when she looked in, her heart sank—he was nowhere to be seen. That left the third upstairs room; a dark room; her mother's room; the room Olive and Emmitt had avoided since the day her mother left twelve years ago.

Turning, Olive started toward the room. Outside, the wind pounded against the way station, whistling as it forced its way through a crack in the hallway window's frame. The sound drew her attention, and as she passed, she pressed the pane against the sill. The eerie shrillness quieted. She stepped closer, a floorboard creaking above the lashing moans of the wind. And then, a voice, pleading and mournful, beckoned Olive to her mother's room.

She continued the short distance and stood, thunderstruck, in her mother's bedroom doorway. At first, she hadn't even recognized her grandfather's voice, its tone one of pain and desperation. But the next words he spoke flooded Olive's mind with the stories she'd heard over the years, and she shivered as tears welled in her eyes.

"How Medora?" Emmitt cried, his wild eyes fixed on nothing but air. "How can a daughter of mine not see what kind of man he was?"

Emmitt turned sharply and ran his fingertips through his hair. He spun back around, addressing nothingness once again.

"He abandoned you seventeen years ago and not one word from him since."

Olive watched as her grandfather seemed to study the apparition he spoke to. He shook his head, and his shoulders relaxed.

"I watched you, honey, watched you rushing to the door every time a rider approached, every time a stage pulled into the station. I saw your face when the visitor was a stranger, not him. I heard you, heard the sadness in your voice, watched from your doorway as you wrote in that damned journal, heard you crying night after night . . . Where was he when you fought the sickness? Where was he when the town buzzed with gossip?"

Olive started into the bedroom. She froze when her grandfather's expression changed abruptly.

Emmitt's eyes narrowed. "Where was he when you could no longer ride?" Pacing, he flung his arms about. "Where was he when we almost lost her to pneumonia?"

Olive moved closer. "Grandpa?" she said. "Grandpa, please, come downstairs."

Emmitt shouted into the air. "Deep inside, you must have known what kind of man he was. He talked of foolish dreams, of how he felt compelled to move west. And where was your man when we almost lost the station? When-"

"Grandpa, we can . . . we should talk about . . . Please, Grandpa, I need to understand. I . . ."

As suddenly as it had started, Emmitt's relentless pacing stopped. He dropped his hands to his sides, turned, and faced the pristine bed, still draped with Olive's mother's cherished quilt.

For the first time in her life, Olive thought her grandfather looked small. "Grandpa-"

"Why wasn't he here?"

Olive feared the pain in his voice much more than the anger just seconds before.

"Right there," he said, pointing bedside chair. He turned slowly, tear-filled eyes beckoning Olive.

She stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, her heart drawing her in despite her fear.

His attention returned to the chair. "That's where I sat, when night turned to day and day to night, until . . ." He faced his granddaughter, smiling, as if he hadn't known she'd been there all along.

"Until you were born, my sweet Olive." He took her hand and led her toward the bed.

Stroking the muslin and cotton quilt with one hand, he looked up at the cross mounted on the wall. "I thought I'd lose you both that night. But He saw fit to give me a granddaughter and . . . and a chance to help my daughter change her ways, and I . . ."

Emmitt released Olive's hand. "I failed. She stayed, for a bit, and then she ran off. Searching for someone . . . What was it she said?" He nearly sobbed, choking on his words. "I need a man who makes me happy, the way he did. I need someone with no ties. No responsibilities. No regrets."

Olive started to speak, but Emmitt's abrupt turn startled her.

"Why wouldn't you listen?" he shouted, first to Olive, and then to the very air in the room, as if her mother's face filled every space. "Even after your sins with that no-good man, God gave you a beautiful, innocent child, and still, you weren't satisfied!" He snatched her photograph, the frame shattered years before, from the dresser. Holding it at arms length, he shook his head. "You were my daughter, Medora, but God forgive me, I hate you for leaving Olive and me. I hate you . . ."

He collapsed to his knees, the photograph crumpled in his palm.

Olive rushed to his side and wrapped him in an embrace. "Oh, Grandpa," she said softly.

He shifted, sitting back against the dresser. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Olive?" His brow creased. "Olive, where are we?"

Despite the passing of time, the fear in her grandfather's voice that night still unleashed a shiver in Olive's very core. In the Ponderosa bedroom, tucked beneath Inger's quilt, the shiver swelled and she trembled. Tightening her grip on the quilt's edge, she drew in a breath and blew it out slowly. She knew the man named Hoss was still in the hallway, and she'd heard footfall descending the stairs—Ben Cartwright was gone, for now. Tears stung her eyes, and she hazarded opening them, the need to ground herself in daylight outweighing her ruse. Cautiously, she raised her eyelids, her tears' escape a sudden rush. She blinked, clearing her vision. And then, she saw it. Lying across the room, draped over a chair, was her grandfather's wolverine jacket. Silent sobs wracked her body, and she bit down on her lip to smother the sounds.

"Grandpa," she thought, "I miss you. I'm so sorry. You were sick, and I didn't even know. And then you were gone, and I-"

Footfall snatched Olive from her memories. The one named Hoss. Quickly, she closed her eyes and stiffened her body. "Oh, Grandpa," she thought, "what do I do now?"


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

Doctor Paul Martin had answered the summons to treat Cartwrights, ranch hands, and welcomed guests more times than he cared to count. From time to time, as was this case, he'd been privy to the details surrounding his patients' conditions. And now, as he stood in the bedroom, the young woman's wrist held gently between his fingers, he couldn't help but wonder what trouble may have followed her through the Ponderosa's front door.

Her pulse was racing, but her breathing appeared steady and relaxed. Since he'd examined her several hours prior, her bruises had darkened to shades of chestnut, mulberry, and charcoal. He raised her head, probing with gentle fingertips, counting once again the number of bumps and contusions sustained during her fall. With no new swelling and no obvious reason for her unconscious state, he lowered her head against the down-filled pillow.

Anxious to check her pupils, Paul crossed to the window, pulled the curtain to the side, and raised the shade. Instantly, light filled the room and the evening sun's warming rays swathed his face. He wondered how many nights the young woman had spent frightened and cold on the mountainside of the Ponderosa.

As the bedroom curtain slipped from his fingers, his patient moaned softly, and he hurried to her bedside.

"Easy now, young lady." His voice was steady and soothing. "The Cartwrights tell me you fainted a short while ago."

Paul noted that her brow suddenly creased.

"Can you open your eyes, miss?"

Olive did as he asked, blinking heavily, apparently groggy and confused.

"That's it. Take your time, breathe steady," Paul said. "You probably don't remember, but I treated you several hours ago, after you were rescued from the gully."

"I . . . I don't remember being rescued, and I don't remember you."

"Don't let that worry you."

"But, I do remember a big man, Hoss, I think. He was here. He gave me something . . ."

"Water," Paul said.

"Yes, and then my head really hurt, and I suddenly felt dizzy."

Paul nodded. "It's no surprise. You took quite a tumble. Bumps, bruises, a few minor cuts. Actually, you're a very lucky young lady. None of the bumps on your head are severe, but I'm sure you've got a terrific headache." He opened the flap on his medical bag and reached inside. "How long were you trapped in that arroyo?"

"I'm not sure, she said softly. "It was daylight when I fell, and I remember the sun setting and the air taking on a chill, but after that, I don't remember a thing. Not until I woke up here."

The glass on the bedside table was empty, so Paul filled it from the pitcher. "I want you to take these. They'll help with the headache and the other pains you're no doubt feeling from the fall." He picked up the glass and reached for her shoulders.

Her wide-eyed expression gave him pause.

Paul smiled. "You have no reason to believe me, but I promise, you have nothing to fear." He set the glass on the table. "Now, may I help you sit up?"

Olive's eyes filled with tears.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," Olive said softly. "It's just that you remind me . . ." She pushed her thoughts aside. "I can sit on my own, thank you."

Paul shook his head. "Your ribs are bruised. It took six stitches to close the gash on your knee, and you won't be able to bend your leg for the bandages." Once again, he reached for her shoulders.

"II don't need help," Olive said sharply. "If you'll just hand me the medicine and the glass."

Bracing her palms against the mattress, she scooted and twisted, the pain obvious on her face.

Paul waited patiently, and when she finally raised herself and then laid back against the pillows, he offered the tablets and water.

She accepted them, and as she swallowed, Paul got the feeling she'd bolt if she were able.

Looking over his shoulder, Joe waved goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. McCain. The couple, whose daughter and son-in-law had recently moved to California, had invited Joe to dinner, and although he knew they were lonely and expecting Doctor Martin's company for the evening, Joe wanted nothing more than to return to the Ponderosa and the mysterious girl.

"You're sure you can't stay for dinner, Joseph?" Mrs. McCain asked.

"Another time," Joe replied politely. "Pa's expecting me back at the house."

Stepping from the porch, Mr. McCain shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I do hope your house guest is all right."

Joe nodded and swung into his saddle. "I'm sure Doctor Martin will take good care of her. Goodbye, now."

"You come back anytime, Joseph," Mrs. McCain shouted as he rode down the path. "Anytime! I'll make your favorite. Pot roast!"

Joe turned and waved again, but his mind was far from the woman's well-liked pot roast. For what must have been the hundredth time, he retraced his steps from the moment he'd started the grand swing until they'd settled the girl into the guest bedroom.

Hop Sing had made good time fetching Doctor Martin, and he'd had time to spare, having set his instruments across the bedroom dresser, readied several small piles of bandaging, and tasked Hop Sing with retrieving a basin of hot water.

Joe, his brothers, and their father had been asked to leave the room, and as they'd gathered downstairs in the great room, none were quite sure what to make of their injured visitor.

But the more Joe reviewed the information at hand, the more he found his thoughts centering on the girl's condition. He had to admit, he was impressed by anyone who braved the Ponderosa mountainside in the dead of winter, and it bothered him that in those months, a young woman may have been frightened, hungry, even injured right under their noses.

 _You're getting soft, Joe. Don't let her pretty face and injuries distract from the fact that she was asking in town about Pa._

Joe thought back to Galen's tale – the blacksmith was certain he'd spoken with a young man.

 _A man's voice._

Suddenly, Joe recalled the time he'd heard Mrs. Shaughnessy speaking to his father in the upstairs hallway. Adam, Hoss, Hop Sing, and a few family friends were downstairs, waiting for Joe. It was his fifth birthday, and there were presents and a cake waiting for the celebration— although "celebrate" wasn't quite the right word. It had been one month to the day since his mother had passed, having fallen from her galloping horse as she rode into the yard.

With the party on hold, Joe still refused to leave his room, and Mrs. Shaughnessy stood in the hall, pleading with Ben to let her try a woman's touch to coax Joe from his room.

Even through his closed pine door, Joe heard the conversation, and now, he remembered something he hadn't thought about in years—Joe had thought his father was talking to another man.

 _"_ _Whoever that man is, I don't wanna talk to him!" Pa was none too pleased when I yelled through the door. "You can't make me come out, and neither can he!"_

As he rode on, Joe couldn't help but smile. He'd apologized to Mrs. Shaughnessy countless times over the years, and each time, she graciously reminded him that it was her deep voice that caught the eye of Mr. Shaughnessy so many years before.

That was all the proof Joe needed, although he wasn't sure if would pass muster with his father and brothers. In his thinking, the mysterious young lady was acting alone, disguising herself in Virginia City, her hair knotted and drawn beneath her hat, her clothing baggy and masculine, and her voice lowered just enough to mimic that of an adolescent young man.

 _Hoss and Adam, and even Pa, they're gonna want to give her the benefit of every one of my doubts. That's just the way they are. But me, I like my doubts lined up in a nice column, and I can't rest until they're-Hank? What's Hank doing riding back this way?_

Joe reined Cochise to a stop and waited for the ranch hand to reach him. The men waved as Hank drew nearer.

"I thought you were going to wait until morning to head back out on the swing, Rest up that arm of yours," Joe said.

"I was, Joe," Hank replied, "but it ain't botherin' me none so I figured I'd ride out as far as Blackbush Hill 'n' camp for the night."

"Does Pa know you didn't take his advice?"

Hank looked like a schoolboy who'd been caught playing hooky. "I reckon he will when you tell him."

Joe grinned. "I'll just let him find out for himself. You keep an eye on that arm, and if need be, you head on back home."

"Right, Joe." Hank started forward, then stopped and turned his mount. "Joe, that little gal showed up outta nowhere. You reckon she's gonna cause trouble for you and your family?"

"I can't help but think anything else, Hank."

Hank nodded. "Seems likely. Most anytime someone shows up outta the blue, it means trouble." Hank nodded again, and waved as he rode off.

Joe continued, as well, heading in the opposite direction as Hank. _He's right about that._ Joe felt his insides tighten. _People who show up can cause real trouble, even when they're a brother you didn't know you had._ He pressed his heels against Cochise, prompting her to a full gallop. _Sometimes, I think staying close to the Ponderosa and Virginia City is the smart thing to do. The less people I meet, the easier it is to trust the ones I've spent time getting to know._

Cochise slowed slightly as she rounded the bend that led onto the trail into the Ponderosa front yard.

 _But even then . . . Look what happened with Gunnar Borgstrom. I've never seen Pa try so hard to defend someone, at least at first. The Gunnar he knew wasn't perfect, that's for sure. But if Inger herself had told Pa her brother Gunnar had turned rotten, become a Comanchero, I don't think Pa would've believed it. At least not until Gunnar's men tried to kill me and Carrie. And Hoss._ Joe couldn't help but shiver. _Finding out his mother's brother, his Uncle Gunnar, was a murdering bandit . . . That was painful to watch. I don't like seein' Hoss hurtin' like that._

Joe rode into the yard and tied Cochise at the hitching post. _I guess I should be thankful. Clay never killed outright; at least that's what he said._


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

As he neared Blackbush Hill, Hank felt a sense of déjà vu. After all, in the space of one day, he'd traveled the same route and back again twice.

Passing where the rescued girl had been injured, he realized just how lucky she was—the winter thaw had yet to reach the lower lands. A few days more and the arroyo would contain water.

He continued on, aware of the dimming skies. His plan was to work the swing in the direction opposite to the one Joe had chosen. He'd ride as far as the Carson turnoff, set up camp along the Truckee, get a good night's sleep, and make the first marker area by midmorning.

Rounding the bend just before the junction, Hank caught sight of something—something out of place.

"What the?"

With his hand on the grip of his pistol, he veered his horse, the pack mule in tow, from the trail. Ducking to avoid the low hanging branches of a spindly tree, he moved in closer. Just ahead, tucked beneath the crown of a healthy pine, hung what appeared to be a bear-skin tarp.

Hank's attention was focused on the makeshift camp. "Anyone here?" he asked, easing his horse forward. "I'm friendly, but in case you're not, I've got me a gun."

The reply was not what he expected.

To his left, he saw the source—a mule, tethered to the trunk of a tree, braying a plea for attention.

As he dismounted, he drew his gun. Bending down, he checked the pile of ash surrounded by small rocks. The cinders were cold.

He stood, his horse and pack mule's reins in hand, and cautiously approached the tethered animal. "Easy there. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Glancing left and right, he stroked the mule and spoke softly. "I know you didn't hitch yourself to this here tree." Hank couldn't help but notice the acrid piles here and there, and he frowned when he spotted the empty feed bag lying on the ground.

"Must be hungry. Ain't a blade of nothin' under here for you to eat." Hank tied his own animals to a nearby tree before crossing the campsite and scouring the area for a satchel of grain. "Nothin' here. Not even an empty bag." Leaning down, he hesitated. "My mama always said a body's things ain't for another's eyes, but . . . I reckon I have to find out who's campin' on the Ponder-that gal!"

Hank hurried to his mule and returned with an empty saddlebag. "The Cartwrights are gonna want to see this," he thought as he gathered the items and slipped them into the bag. "It ain't much. I reckon I'll leave the jerky and these canteens . . . No need to bring the coffee pot . . . Clothes. She might need these."

Hank slipped his hand beneath a small pile of clothing, but when he lifted it toward the saddlebag, the topmost piece came unfolded and fell to the ground. He shook the dirt from the fabric, and his eyes were drawn to the shirt's pocket and the letters E and J sewn into the cloth. _Now I know it's that gal's camp. I'd best get this back to the ranch tonight._

Hank moved to the other side of the camp, and he examined the bearskin tarp. _Whoever tanned this hide sure does know what he's doing. Or maybe . . . Could be a white gal knows how to tan hides._ He reached for a stack of three books, but when he tried to add them to the saddlebag, there wasn't enough room. With the books in one hand, he fumbled with the buckle on the other side of the bag. One of the books tumbled from his hand and landed, opened, face down.

Hank managed the buckle and slid the two books inside. He picked up the open, fallen book and turned it over. He froze at the sight of the heavily blackened letters on the page—"Benjamin Cartwright ruined my future. He owes me, and by God, I plan to make him pay."

"Hop Sing is sitting with her. Between her injuries, the stress she put on herself moving around, and the dose of laudanum I gave her, she'll sleep right through to morning."

"Did she tell you her name?" Hoss asked.

Confused, Paul shook his head. "You mean you don't know her name?"

"No," Ben replied. "She was unconscious when we found her and understandably distraught when she came to upstairs."

Hoss interrupted his father. "She was confused 'n' afraid when she woke up. I tried to calm her down, let her know she was gonna be all right 'n' where she was. I was about to ask her name when she fainted."

Paul picked up his hat and his black bag. "Ben, I don't have a fact or a notion to prove that young woman means you or your sons any harm." He reached for the front door latch and paused, turning to face Ben, Hoss, and Adam. "Over the years, I've developed a knack for reading people, and that young lady may not realize I know this, but when I arrived a while ago, she was no more unconscious than we are now."

"You mean she was fakin'?"

Paul nodded. "I'm sure of it, Hoss." He donned his hat. "You say she's been asking about the Ponderosa?"

"That's what we've been told," Ben replied.

"Like I said, asking does not prove intent to harm, but I'd wager that little lady's up to something. Be careful, Ben."

"Believe me, we will," Ben said.

Before Paul could open the door, he felt a tug on the latch. He backed away, and Joe entered the house.

For an instant, Joe was startled by the men standing in the entry. He glanced at the solemn faces. "How is she?" he asked.

"She's asleep, and with rest and proper care, she'll be fine." Paul turned to Ben. "I'll be back late tomorrow afternoon. Hop Sing knows what to do." This time, Paul addressed Joe. "Just remember, she needs to stay calm."

Adam walked with Paul to his buggy, and inside, Joe was anxious to question the girl.

"Pa, Hop Sing's been to town and back, and you and Hoss have already taken a turn. I'll sit with her tonight, and the minute she wakes up, we'll get some answers."

"Joseph, you heard what Paul said. No one is going to question that girl until she's stronger."

"Pa," Joe said, pacing in front of the fireplace, "you're forgetting she's been hiding out on the Ponderosa, asking questions about the ranch and about you. You're-"

"I'm not forgetting anything!"

His father's tone took him by surprise.

"Joe, you're forgetting something. There's no law against asking questions. And we've never pressed charges against someone for taking refuge in our line shacks."

Joe couldn't let it go. "Pa, she's hiding something. You know it, Hoss knows it, Adam knows it, we all know it!" Immediately, he regretted raising his voice to his father. "Pa," he said softly, "why risk hiding on the mountain, and in winter, no less? Why not come to us?" Joe walked toward the front door and waved his arm. "Why not walk right up to the house and knock on the door? Why pretend to be a man and go around asking questions in Virginia City?"

Hoss waited, wondering if he'd reveal the girl's recent duplicity to Joe.

Knowing his middle son well, Ben met his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. _I reckon Pa figures Joe's got enough reason to doubt that gal. No need to add kindling to a ragin' fire._

"Pa," Joe continued, "you're just too trus-"

The front door swung open and Adam entered. Behind him, holding an envelope in one hand, was Danny Russell.

Adam felt the tension in the room, and a quick glance from Hoss to Joe to their father told him all he needed to know.

"Danny here's brought a letter."

Ben extended his hand, bit the young boy offered the envelope to Joe.

"It's addressed to Joe," Danny said. "The postmark says it came all the way from Mexico. Mexico City, to be exact."

The mood in the room took on a new density.

Adam reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it into Danny's waiting hand.

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Cartwright."

As Adam closed the door, Joe stared at the address on the envelope.

Ben took two steps toward his youngest son. "Joe-"

"It's from Clay." Joe's voice carried a mixture of relief and pain. "I recognize the writing."

Tension pressed against Ben's shoulders. Was the letter an explanation? An apology? An invitation? No matter. Ben knew any word from Clay would undo the peace that had finally begun to settle within his son.

"Hoss," Adam said, "there's a piece of cake with your name on it in the kitchen."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I reckon it's been at least an hour since I ate that second piece."

Adam and Hoss started for the kitchen. Joe sat heavily into the settee, still staring at the letter.

"Joe," Ben said softly, "why don't you-"

The unmistakable sound of pounding hooves brought all of the Cartwrights toward the front door. At the credenza, Adam and Hoss armed themselves.

Before anyone could knock, Hoss opened the door, and Hank nearly fell into the room.

"Mr. Cartwright," Hank shouted, "I found something . . . That girl . . . She wrote it."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

"Well, Pa? What's it say?"

Ben's eyes never strayed from the tooled, leather cover as he walked to his chair by the hearth. He all but collapsed against the burgundy seat cushion.

Adam sat on the settee, near his father. "Pa, we don't know for sure who that book belongs to. Could be a homesteader or a yonder man passing through. We won't know anything for sure until that girl wakes up and her head's clear enough that we have a real conversation with her."

The Cartwright sons and Hank looked on as Ben stroked the smooth cover with his fingertips. His silence made everyone feel out of sorts.

"I didn't mean to snoop, Mr. Cartwright," Hank said apologetically. "At that campsite, I found a shirt with them letters on it. You know, the E and J on a pocket. Well. That shirt's out in the saddlebag. I can get it if you . . ."

Ben's pained expression stopped Hank midsentence.

"Pa?" Hoss asked quietly. "Pa, what is it?"

Lost in thought, Ben continued to stare at the book.

Hank took Ben's reaction to heart. "Honest, Mr. Cartwright, I was gatherin' the things and the book, it just fell, and it was open when I picked it up. I couldn't help but see what was written on the page. I marked it with a piece of hay, there, right there in the book."

"The journal," Ben said, his face and tone taut with reverence. "It's not a book. It's a journal."

"You've seen it before, haven't you, Pa?" Adam leaned forward. "What is it?"

Ben shook his head ever so slightly. "One just like it . . . a long time ago." Slowly, Ben opened the journal to the page Hank had marked. His breath caught when he saw the large words written on the page—Benjamin Cartwright ruined my future. He owes me, and by God, I plan to make him pay.

As Ben silently read the words, Joe folded the letter from Clay and shoved it into his trouser pocket. He knelt next to the big red chair. "Pa, you all right?"

Ben closed the journal and ran his hand lightly across the embossed cover.

"Pa?" Hoss asked.

Ben paused, then raised his head. Holding the journal with both hands, he looked directly at Hoss. "Even before we met, your mother and I kept journals. You've seen them in the dresser in my bedroom."

Hoss swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

Ben's smile was wistful. "Adam, I doubt you remember the store Inger ran. The one I helped her with after we met."

"I remember sweeping up the grain and flour, but not much else. I was only five years old."

Ben didn't seem to hear Adam's reply.

"Inger insisted on leather covers for the journals she sold in the store. She loved them so. They were works of art in her eyes. Tooled leather covers made by a man in the next town." Ben smiled. "She said the patterns on them made her think of home, of Sweden, and the delicate, white Twinflowers that grow wild on the countryside." Ben drifted in thought.

Joe turned, looking to his older brothers for comfort.

"Pa," Adam said, speaking for himself and his brother, "you're going to have to tell us what you're thinking."

Ben looked up at Hoss. "Inger insisted on tooled leather covers— exactly like this one."

Hoss's brows rose. "Well, I'll be."

Adam stood and stepped toward his father. "Are you saying that girl had one of Inger's journals?"

Ben ignored Adam's question and placed the journal on his lap. "The man who made the ones sold in Inger's store was confined to a wheelchair. His leather work was his only means of earning a living."

Joe sat on the living room table, just in front of his father. "Pa, lots of people make leather work. How can you be sure this one was made by that man? And so what if it was?"

"That man felt he owed Inger his life. She told me he didn't feel his work was worth her attention, but she convinced him people would marvel at his craftsmanship. And they did.

"He put a mark into every cover he made, a sort of brand. I remember it well. The mark is right here, on the lower left, just like always —a mark that was his way of thanking Inger for selling his goods. A backwards letter B followed by the letter I . . . Inger Borgstrom."

Hoss's insides churned at the longing in his father's tone. "Pa, I still don't see-"

"When we married, Inger signed the store over to her brother."

Hoss sat on the hearth. "Uncle Gunnar."

"That's right, Hoss," Ben said. "Your uncle, Gunnar Borgstrom."

"But he didn't keep the store for long," Joe said quickly. "He said so when he was here. What was it, two years ago?"

"Yes, two years."

"Pa," Adam said, "I'm confused. From what you've told me, Uncle Gunnar never wanted to be a shopkeeper. And God knows, he wasn't."

The words left Adam's mouth before he could stop them. "I'm sorry, Hoss. I didn't mean-"

"He was a thief," Ben said, hoping the words might sting Hoss a little less coming from him. "A Comanchero. And I thank God Inger never knew what he became."

Hoss bowed his head. A second later, he looked up. "Pa, after Uncle Gunnar died," Hoss said, "you told me you always wondered if he blamed you for something, but you never said what."

Ben nodded, still holding the journal. "Long before Adam and I arrived in town, Gunnar made it clear to everyone he wanted to leave, to head to the gold fields and their promise of fortune." Ben paused and looked at Hoss. His son's memory of his uncle had already been sullied—Gunnar himself had done that when he arrived in Virginia City in the company of his Comancheros. But the girl, the journal, the questions . . . Ben knew Hoss, and Adam and Joe, as well, would not leave things as they were.

"Pa," Joe said, interrupting Ben's thoughts, "what does this have to do with the journal or that girl upstairs?"

"Read it, Joseph."

Ben handed him the journal, and Joe thumbed it open to the marked page. He read to himself, and his face flushed. He looked at his brothers, then read aloud, "Benjamin Cartwright ruined my future. He owes me, and by God, I plan to make him pay."

Hoss took the journal from Joe and glanced at the page. "Pa, you think that little gal had Gunnar's journal?"

"I don't know, son. But I do know that journal came from Inger's store."

The early spring night sky twinkled. A cool breeze carried with it the smell of Ponderosa pines; a smell the manure, hay, and saddle oil couldn't completely mask.

For as long as Ben could remember, the barn had been a place of refuge. Once, Hop Sing had said it was because the animals listened to whatever bothered a man, and their silent reply made the man's thoughts come together. In the house, Ben had listened to his sons, or rather heard what was not being said in their words. After all, he'd stopped short of the full truth about the day he, Adam, and Inger left Gunnar behind.

And now, for some reason, over great distance and a typical Nevada winter, the young girl in the upstairs guest room had sought him out.

Adam had reminded them the evidence—what information Joe had collected, the familiar journal, and the words inside—was leading to a conclusion, but until they heard from the girl, it was circumstantial at best.

Ben worried for Hoss—preoccupied, and rightfully so, with the strange connection between the girl and his mother. And Joe, who'd seemed more like himself since he'd returned, and had yet to open the letter from Clay,

Ben needed answers. The girl would give him some in the morning, of that, he'd make sure. With the journal lying on the work table, Ben lit two lanterns and hung them from the post nails. The journal in hand, he sat on the barn floor, just at the edge of Buck's stall. He stared down at the cover. The grooves and curves of the leather tooling seemed to rise a bit, deepening and defining the design and signature.

"Twinflowers. More beautiful in nature's delicate white, but still, beautiful blossoming on the leather." He traced one flower with his fingertip. "Inger."

Buck shifted in his stall, and Ben smiled.

"You and she would have been fast friends. Both, gentle and strong, dependable and . . ." Ben's nose tingled. He closed his eyes. "Forgive me, Inger. You and I always agreed, a journal is personal, only to be read with permission." He opened the journal to the first page. "That girl's too young. This can't belong to her. And even though Joe, and maybe Adam and Hoss, think she's a threat to me, to our family, I can't shake the feeling. She needs help, Inger, and for some reason, this journal has brought her to me."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

"You reckon we should make one for Pa 'n' Joe?"

Adam forked a thick slice of ham. "If we make them, we have to deliver them." He placed the meat atop a freshly sliced piece of bread. "You saw Joe's face. You want to go knocking on his door to give him a sandwich?"

Hoss shook his head and shoved a knife into a jar of homemade mustard.

"You saw Pa, too. You want to walk to the barn with a late night snack?"

Hoss slathered the mustard onto his bread. "No, I don't. And seems like you don't neither."

Adam poured two glasses of milk and he and Hoss sat at the kitchen table. For a full minute, they ate in telling silence.

Hoss had every right to be troubled by the events of late. Ben and Joe had scattered; their way of dealing with demons. Adam had learned to read his brother, Hoss—he'd speak when he was ready.

With nothing but crumbs on his plate and an empty glass in his hand, Adam pushed his chair from the table. "You want anything else?" he asked as he carried the dishes to the sink.

"Answers."

Adam turned slowly and found his brother staring into his glass. Hoss had more than a mysterious girl on his mind. "Before there are answers, there are questions."

Hoss slid his glass to the center of the table. "Yeah, well I got a few of one and a passel of the other 'n' they're all swirly in my head right now."

"You want to work on unswirling the few and the passel in private or would you like some company?"

Hoss considered Adam's offer. A moment later, he nodded and fiddled with crumbs on his plate. "I reckon a clear head might help sort out the swirlin'."

"A clear head?"

"Yeah. With everything that's been happ'nin', you're the only one that doesn't need answers." Hoss finally looked at Adam. "You might want answers, but you don't need 'em. Not like me 'n' Pa . . . 'n' Joe."

Adam spun the kitchen chair around and straddled it. He rested his forearms against the chair's top rail. "You're right, Hoss. And you're also wrong."

"How's that?"

Adam rested his chin against his arm. "Like you, I have no real memories of my mother. Everything I know about her, I learned from Pa, and I have to assume those things are accurate."

Hoss raised an eyebrow. "You think Pa lied to you about your ma?"

"No, Pa would't. But what he's told me, he's told me through the eyes and heart of a man in love and a man in mourning. In my experience, those two things can sometimes color facts, make a person overlook the less pleasant things about another person."

Hoss nodded. "Makes 'em see nothing but the good."

"That's right. And there's nothing wrong with that. Love is accepting the bad with the good, and although there may be very little bad, no one is perfect."

Hoss smiled. "Most times, to hear Pa talk, all three of his wives were perfect."

"Most times," Adam agreed. "But I don't think Inger is one of the swirlies in your head, is she?"

Hoss huffed and laced his fingers together. "No, I reckon she ain't."

"How about we start with an answer."

Hoss thought for a moment. "When Pa met Uncle Gunnar, he was an unhappy man, but he cleared Pa 'n' gave my ma and him his blessing."

"True."

"And the next time we saw him, he'd turned outlaw, a Comanchero."

"True again."

Hoss leaned in. "Adam, what makes a man so unhappy he turns outlaw?"

"Question one," Adam said. "I don't think anyone can answer that but the outlaw, himself."

"Yeah, so that one's bound to swirl all my days."

"I'm afraid so."

"Unless . . . You reckon Pa might know? He said he wondered if Gunnar blamed him for something."

"That'd be a question for Pa. Could be he doesn't know."

Hoss pushed his char from the table and stood. "Well, I'm rightly tired of all the things we don't know." He began pacing the kitchen floor. "We don't know who that little gal is. We don't know why she's been livin' on the mountain. We don't know why she's askin' about Pa. We don't know who that journal belongs to or how she got it. We don't know why Clay just up and left. We don't know why my ma's brother turned outlaw. We don't know why he . . . he . . ." Hoss leaned against the kitchen counter. "Why did he have to come here, Adam? Why did Clay come? If them two had stayed away, Joe would've never considered leavin' the Ponderosa, and I would've had the uncle I'd always heard about."

"That's seven don't knows, two questions, and two things you and Joe can't take back." Adam stood and walked to Hoss. "For what it's worth, I don't think Gunnar meant to hurt you, Hoss. And I don't think Clay came here intending to confuse Joe." He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll get answers from the girl tomorrow. We'll find out about the letter from Clay when Joe's ready. And once Pa works through things, you should talk to him, Hoss."

"I reckon you're right."

"Let's get some sleep. We've got a long day of unswirlin' ahead."

Hoss chuckled. "Yeah, I reckon we do." He took two steps and turned. "Hey, Adam."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

For fifteen minutes, the sealed envelope sat untouched on the bed, cockeyed, a fold down the center, its ends extending upward. Joe lay on his back, legs crossed at the ankles, his hands behind his head. The ceiling held no answers. Instead, its rich pine boards offered a blank canvas for the unknowns facing him and his family.

He'd considered his father—the journal, the girl, Gunnar Borgstrom. Memories could be precious, but they could also bring heartache, but Joe knew with his sons at his side, Pa would face whatever truth made a journey and crossed the Ponderosa's doorstep.

And there was Hoss. Although he hadn't said it, Joe could tell the mere mention of Uncle Gunnar had stirred the disappointment Hoss had felt when he'd learned the truth a few years ago. Like their father, Joe was certain Hoss could come to terms with even more disappointments from the past, and with the young woman who'd dropped them in his lap.

And there was the letter from Clay. Still sealed. Still haunting.

Joe closed his eyes and sighed. _Pa, Hoss, and me. All of us facing changes in the way we feel about someone in our lives. And Adam . . . I know my brother, and he'll be there to listen, to sort things out, even to ignore things when we need a normal minute or two._ Joe huffed. _Maybe he's the one to deal with that gal down the hall._

Joe's thoughts drifted. He stared at the large knothole in the centermost ceiling board. For as long as he could remember, he'd wondered what had happened to the chunk of wood that once filled the gap. Was it left behind on the mountain? Was it on the ground where Pa and Adam had chopped and sawed for months to add his bedroom and one spare onto the house? Or was the tree that was once home to that length of wood responsible for the hole in the lumber?

Childish thoughts. Silly. Or were they?

 _That plank of wood keeps the rain and snow out of the house. It stops the sun from beating down on my bed and the moon from lighting the room at night. I just know it always will. I depend on it without even thinking. It's missing a piece, the knothole, and it doesn't even matter. It belongs where it is. Like me._

Joe swung his legs to the side of the bed and reached for the envelope. He held it up to the lamplight, shook the paper inside to one end, then tore open the other. His fingertips grasped the contents, and as he freed it from the wrapping, something slid out and fell onto his lap.

 _Mama's picture._ Astonished, Joe touched the print. _I gave this to Clay. It was all he had of our mother. I don't understand . . ._

Confusion mixed with anger and hurt. Joe opened the letter and read aloud.

"Dear Joe,

I know I hurt you and I hope someday the hurt will wither and you'll come to understand, if not forgive. You are where you're meant to be, and me, I'm everywhere I'm meant to be. I could never be happy in one place, not even a place as vast as the Ponderosa. And you could never be happy without roots. You're a smart man, Joe, and I think you always knew that.

The picture is yours, and I thank you for letting me cherish it for a while. All those long days in the trail, I came to realize something. Marie gave me life, she gave me you. But the woman I call mother is the one who raised me, the one who filled my heart and my head with the need to always move on. This photograph belongs to Marie's son, the one whose heart and head are part of the Ponderosa. I hope she knows how lucky she was to have known you.

Joe, my journey will take me anywhere, and each time I set a new destination, I leave behind the place and the people, and take with me the memories. Your journey will take you deeper into your land, further into the lives of your friends and family, and fill you with the memories you deserve.

I will visit again, one day, and I expect a generous supply of pulque to be within reach. I can't think of anything I'd like to see more than Adam and Hoss sharing a jug, and anything I like to do more than share another with you.

Always your brother,

Clay"

Joe folded the letter. He slid it back into the envelope and then picked up the picture and held it toward the lamplight. He smiled back at the beautiful face.

"Clay's where he wants to be, Mama. And so am I."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Nothing worked. Not closing the curtain to the moon's glow, not fluffing the pillows at the head of the bed, not reading the book he'd borrowed from his father.

When he'd followed Adam upstairs, they'd both noticed lamplight peeking beneath Joe's bedroom door. The brothers agreed with silent glances that Joe was best left alone for the night, and they went quietly to their rooms.

As tired as Hoss was, sleep eluded him. He wanted answers to many questions. Twice, he'd gotten up and walked to the bedroom door, considering waking the girl, but Doctor Martin's voice kept creeping into his thoughts—"With the dose of laudanum I gave her, she'll sleep right through to morning." And there was Joe. He'd agreed with Adam that Joe would seek them out when he was ready, but Joe and the girl weren't Hoss's only worries. He wondered what secret his father had kept from them and what the girl had to do with that secret.

In the barn, Ben held the young woman's journal tightly in his hands, the first page staring up at him in the lantern light. He had yet to read a word.

 _A journal holds many things. Thoughts, truths, questions, dreams—each_

 _of them personal, some of them secret, many of them sacred._

Ben closed the journal and set it on the milking stool to his left. He stretched his shoulders, and as he rubbed a kink from his neck, a saddlebag, clearly out of place, caught his eye.

 _The young woman's belongings._

Moments later, he'd emptied one side of the saddlebag across the sturdy wooden workbench. Ben wasn't quite sure what he'd expected to find. There were two men's shirts, both with initials on the chest pocket, a knife, a skillet and coffee pot, a small amount of flour and several lengths of jerky.

 _Months on the mountain. I wonder if there are more things elsewhere._

He opened the second bag. Its contents—a single item—seemed to leap into his chest and squeeze his heart.

 _Inger._

Ben clutched the fabric to his chest.

 _Inger's quilt. The one she made for Gunnar before we left on our journey._

Once again, Ben sat on the stool. His mind raced. His heart matched the pace.

 _This quilt . . . the threat . . . that girl . . . the journal._

Ben lifted the journal and for several seconds, he stared at the tool work on the cover. He closed his eyes. _Forgive me._

Hoss crossed the room, opened the top drawer of his dresser, and dug down under a pile of folded shirts. He pulled out a journal—his journal, a gift from his father on his twelfth birthday. He set the book on the dresser top and opened the cover. He smiled as he read . . .

 _Today, I am twelve. Pa gave me this here journal and a mighty fine saddle. Adam is back east. He goes to college. But he sent me a new Sunday shirt all the way from Boston. Little Joe gave me a nice new bridle. I reckon Pa bot it, but Little Joe was plum bustin when he gave it to me. Hop Sing made cake. It was real good._

Hoss thumbed the pages and his smile faded. He'd made about ten entries, the last two being three months apart. Journaling hadn't appealed to twelve-year-old Hoss Cartwright. 

_I tried. I tied 'cause it was somethin' Pa did. Pa and my ma._

He closed the journal and stared at the picture framed in gold sitting atop his dresser. _Looks like Uncle Gunnar's visitin' from the grave, Ma. I know you loved him. Pa said so, 'n' he also said you did everything you could to set him straight._

Hoss traced the edge of the frame with his fingertip. _At the end, I think Uncle Gunnar finally understood you were tryin' to help him, and I think he appreciated it. But this little gal 'n' that journal . . . Pa says it came from your store, Ma, 'n' he's holdin' a powerful hurt close to his heart. Something to do with Gunnar._

Hoss wiped his brow—the air in the room suddenly seemed close. He went to the window, grasped the frame, and raised it. A flicker in the distance caught his eye—Pa was still in the barn. Hoss glanced back at the journal sitting on his dresser. He thought for a moment, dressed, and then started for the barn.

For twenty-eight minutes, Ben read, his muscles taut, his brow furrowed. When he reached the page he'd seen earlier that night, he read it aloud.

"Benjamin Cartwright ruined my future. He owes me, and by God, I plan to make him pay."

"You all right, Pa?"

Ben jumped. His middle son's light steps often baffled and surprised him.

"You should be in bed, son."

Hoss stepped into the lantern light. "Pa, you . . . you're kinda pale. You feelin' poorly?"

Ben took a deep breath and closed the journal. "Sit down, Hoss."

His father's tone worried Hoss. Suddenly, the barn was foreign, and he searched left and right for a stool or chair. And when he sat in front of his father he noticed the journal on his father's lap. Hoss was anxious. "You've been readin'?"

Ben nodded.

"You know what all this is about?"

"Not all, but enough to piece together the rest, and it's quite a story."

"We've always enjoyed your stories, Pa."

Ben and Hoss turned toward the familiar voice. The silhouettes of Adam and Joe stood the doorway.

"And before you say it," Joe said as they entered and settled on the ground, "yes, we should be asleep. But we aren't, and you aren't, and we're all here and ready for some answers."

For the next hour, Ben revealed what he'd learned from the journal, including the name of the woman to whom it belonged—Medora Jacobson.

From what he'd read, it took no imagination to know Medora was intent on leaving her life at the Humboldt Way Station. She'd worked at the family business for as long as she could remember, and through the years, the settlers, wanderers, even the unsavory people passing through the station served as reminders of her longing.

One day, a group of fur traders from Canada passed through the station on their way to California. According to Medora's journal, her father, Emmitt, pegged the trappers as trouble from the moment they arrived.

That evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, Medora sat outside on the porch, watching the springtime night sky. One of the traders, a man Medora described as strong, interesting, "oh, so handsome," joined her, and before the night was over, he'd filled her head with stories of the places he'd been and things he'd seen and done.

Medora had listened, asked questions, and according to her writing, felt a kinship with the man—Gunnar Borgstrom. Medora wrote that at one time, Gunnar's life had been boring, stagnant, with no promise of a future. He told her of his sister, Inger, and her naive acceptance of their life; a small, struggling town, a failing mercantile, and a mindset of striving for a mundane existence.

Medora had asked, and Gunnar had not held back. The bottle of whiskey he'd helped himself to had loosened his tongue, and Medora enjoyed sharing the forbidden drink as they talked.

Gunnar hated his sister and her plain ways. He wanted an easier life, one of wealth and no restrictions, and he was determined to seek that fortune in the gold fields of British Colombia, Canada.

Gunnar's big chance came about when a "poor dirt peasant" named Benjamin Cartwright arrived in town. Gunnar and his friends did their best to encourage Cartwright and his young son to move on, especially when Cartwright showed an interest in Gunnar's sister, Inger. According to Medora's journal, Gunnar knew if Inger and Cartwright were to marry, his hopes of selling their mercantile would disappear, along with his share of the profits and his dreams of traveling to the gold fields.

Knowing his sons had heard the tale of Ben and Inger's courtship and marriage, Ben skipped ahead in his summary of what he'd read in the journal.

"As you know, when we married, Gunnar gave Inger and me his blessing."

Hoss nodded. "You said he finally came to his senses and wished you the best."

Ben uncrossed his legs, rested his elbows on his thighs, and sank his chin against his folded hands. "I lied."

Adam, Hoss, and Joe swapped glances.

"Inger, Adam, and I were packed and ready to leave town. Inger and Adam had already said their goodbyes and were sitting in the wagon. I checked the wagon's bonnet ties one last time and walked up to Gunnar to say goodbye.

When I did, Gunnar leaned in, and with a huge smile, he hugged me. But then . . . he whispered something I never wanted Inger," Ben looked at Adam and then at Hoss, "or Adam or Hoss to know. Better thinking Gunnar had become the good man he pretended to be."

"What did he say, Pa?"

Ben dropped his head, paused, and then breathed in. "He said, "I hate you for this, Ben Cartwright. If you hadn't shown up, my plan to get shed of this store and this town would have worked. Inger thinks me content running our father's beloved store. I am not. I am selling this stinking store and getting out of this damn town."

No one spoke. Joe watched Hoss as the realization sunk in. Ben's omission over the years, his lie, Over the years, Ben omission—his lie—had allowed Hoss to fantasize about the uncle he'd never met. And the lie now revealed explained a little of how Gunnar had so easily fallen into the life of an outlaw.

Adam's concern for Hoss took a backseat to his worry for his father. Secrets. Adam knew what long-kept secrets could do to a man. Yet there was something more.

"Pa," Adam said, "what else?"

Ben smiled. Adam knew him so well.

"Once we settled in Virginia City, I wrote Gunnar to tell him of Inger's death. I don't mind telling you I agonized over whether or not he'd answer."

"Did he?" Hoss asked.

Ben nodded. "He did. The letter told of his inability to sell the mercantile, of little or no revenue with which to purchase more goods, of how I owed him for ruining his plans, for taking his sister away . . . to her death."

Again, no one spoke for several moments.

"Gunnar claimed that he'd been unable to sell the store. McWhorter—that's the man Gunnar had planned on selling the store to, the man who wanted Inger as his wife—refused to buy the store. After all, the deal he'd made with Gunnar included Inger, and I'd taken her away. His misery was my fault.

His letter tormented me. I would dream of Inger's face as she said goodbye to her brother, and her face would shimmer and dim and suddenly, it was her face as I held her . . . a she died in my arms."

"Pa," Hoss said, his arm grasping his father's shoulder, "Uncle Gunnar was a grown man. His problems were of his own makin', not yours."

Joe smiled at Hoss who always seemed to know what to say.

"I know, Hoss, but Inger loved Gunnar, and I felt I should do something."

"What did you do?" Adam asked.

"To make a long story short, I contacted Bradly Dawson. Bradly and his family were part of the wagon train, and Inger and I were quite fond of them. Bradly went on to California, struck a vein, and used his money to start a very profitable business.

"One of the things Inger and I liked most about Bradly was his foresight. He could take a situation and plan for the future in a way that insured success. I told him about Gunnar's struggling town, and Bradly, through his contacts, stepped in to help.

"In the end, Gunnar was able to sell the store—for a profit much smaller than he demanded at first. The store was expanded, a mill was built, and the town began to flourish. But Gunnar . . . well . . . Gunnar dreamed more than he worked, and he drank more than he dreamed."

Ben stood, stretched the tension from his shoulders, and crossed to the other side of the barn, still holding the journal.

"I never heard from Gunnar again, until he and his comancheros showed up here a year ago." Ben looked at the journal in his hands. "According to what he told Medora, he blamed me for the time it took to sell the store. It seems he missed the opportunity to strike it rich in Canada, and what little money he did manage to make, he lost to drinking and gambling. He wandered, held countless jobs for short periods of time and ended up a fur trader. Years later, he ended up at Humboldt Station, bitter and poor."

Adam shifted on the ground. He picked up a length of hay and twirled it in his fingers. "Medora wrote that? That Gunnar was bitter and poor?"

"She did. But she also wrote of his charm, his enticing smile, and his promise of taking her away from the life she hated. And of his hatred of a man from Virginia City, Nevada. A man named Benjamin Cartwright."

"Does it say what happened next, Pa?" Joe asked.

Ben nodded. "When the traders moved on, Gunnar stayed behind. Without her father's knowledge—at least at first—Medora provided Gunnar with fee lodging, food, and a place in her bed."

Adam and Joe locked eyes. The facts were adding up, and they were sure they knew the total.

"Three months later, Medora awoke and went downstairs to fulfill her morning duties as mistress of the way station. She'd prepared the coffee, bacon, flapjacks, and biscuits, and when she went to Gunnar's room to call him to breakfast, he and his things were gone. Everything, that is, except a quilt, which was lying folded on his bed."

Ben turned to Hoss. "It was the quilt your mother had given him the day we left for the west. She'd made it herself, just like the one providing warmth for the girl, Olive, upstairs asleep right now."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

The conversation in the barn continued for hours. Ben had just explained that while he'd read about half of the journal, he had no intention of finishing.

"The last few paragraphs I did read were becoming deeply personal, and I feel unsettled by the prospect of reading further. According to the journal, Gunnar told Medora Jacobson I ruined his life, and knowing he absconded with every dime of Emmitt Jacobson's savings and left Medora heartbroken, angry, unmarried, and expecting a child-"

"Did he know, Pa?" Hoss asked, clearly shaken. "Did Uncle Gunnar know about the baby?"

"That's my son. He's not looking for excuses, but for a measure of good in hi uncle," Ben thought.

"No, Hoss. Medora wrote that she'd planned on telling him "soon". He did not know. And the next entry in the journal came two days later—one day after Gunnar disappeared into the night."

"Maybe, if he'd known . . ."

"Hoss, we can't know for sure what he'd have done had he known. Gunnar filled her heart with promises. Promises he couldn't keep for himself, let alone a young woman and a baby. He stole from her and her father, and then he was gone. I'm sorry, son." Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. "And I thank God Inger never knew."

Hoss stared at the ground.

Joe tossed aside the handful of straw he'd been fiddling with for the past hour. "I was wrong," he said softly.

"Wrong about what?" Adam asked.

"That girl. I took what I saw and heard and turned it into a threat against Pa."

Adam leaned against the barn wall and crossed his legs at the ankles. "We still don't know what she wants, Joe. And we won't until we talk to-"

"Mister Cartwright!" Hop Sing called from the porch of the house. "Mister Cartwright!"

Ben and his sons rushed out of the barn and toward the house.

"I look in bedroom, I look at desk-"

"Hop Sing-"

"I look in kitchen, I no find."

"Hop Sing-"

"I come outside, yell, yell, yell-"

"Hop Sing!"

"Why you yell?"

"I'm yelling because"—Ben sighed and dropped his hands to his sides—"what is it, Hop Sing?"

"Missy wake up."

Joe brushed past his father and stood in front of Hop Sing. "Did she say anything?"

Hop Sing nodded. "Missy afraid. She say, nothing is like plan. Hop Sing tell her Ponderosa safe, Cartwrights very good. Missy cry, say she so tired. Say she make many mistakes. Say she want to see Benjamin Cartwright."

Upstairs, the conversation between Olive and Ben was calm and revealing, and but downstairs, one of the Cartwright sons listened as the other two came to revelations of their own . . .

Pacing offered no answers, and although he'd tried, Joe couldn't seem to sit still. "How long's he been up there?" Joe asked.

Adam glanced at the grandfather clock. "Five minutes longer than the last time you asked." He sat forward on the settee and grasped the handle of his coffee cup. By the time he settled back, Joe had taken a seat next to Hoss on the hearth.

"Sorry. I guess I'm not as patient as the two of you."

"Joe, you were born impatient," Adam said.

Hoss reached into the bowl and selected a large green apple.

"You pace, and Hoss eats," Adam added. "And eats. And eats."

Hoss took quick aim and threw the apple, and when Adam ducked, it continued across the room and hit the floor just in front of the door.

Joe's laugh was half-hearted and short lived. "Adam, I know we don't have the facts, and I know you always say there's no sense in supposing, but-"

"But let's wait until we hear what Olive Jacobson has to say."

Joe stood and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, you're right."

Hoss reached for another apple and turned it slowly with his hands. "Do you think Uncle Gunnar was ever happy?"

Adam looked at Joe and they both smiled. It seemed as though supposing was still up for discussion.

"Being happy means different things to different people, Hoss," Adam answered.

"How's that?"

Adam sipped his coffee and then set the cup on the saucer. "Take Pa, for instance. He enjoyed being a sailor, braving the sea and whatever weather nature had in store for him. He liked traveling to different places, and he was happy at a certain point and time in his life. But then, things changed. Pa changed. And he found he wanted—needed—something more."

Adam sat forward, refilled his cup, and relaxed back against the settee. "His journey west was no Sunday Social, what with changing weather and terrain, sickness, Indians, and running short on money, but he was aiming for something he needed and so he still felt happy."

Hoss finished his apple and tossed the core into the fire behind him.

"From all I knew and what I know now," Adam continued, "I doubt Uncle Gunnar ever felt happy. Oh, he pretended, for his sister's sake, but we know now he lied."

Joe sat on the table. "But Adam, he sold that store, eventually, and he went to Canada like he said he wanted. Shouldn't he have been happy making that journey?"

"No," Hoss said softly. "You have to know what it is you want, where you belong, before a journey like that can make you happy. I don't think Uncle Gunnar ever knew those things. Not ever."

Silence lingered for several moments.

Joe put one foot on the table and propped his elbow on his knee. "Just like Clay," he said. "He had a family. For a long time, he didn't know they weren't his real ma and pa, but he had a family and he wanted more. He lived on the edge, moved around all the time, and then decided he wanted another family—us. But it wasn't what he needed. He wasn't happy here."

"What about you, Joe?" Adam asked. "Are you happy here?"

All else was forgotten as Hoss and Adam watched and waited for Joe's answer.

Joe looked around the room, and then at each of his brothers. "For a while there, I wasn't sure. I guess it was one of those changes you talked about, Adam. But the more I saw of what's out there on our Ponderosa, the happier I felt. And when I thought it was being threatened, nothing meant more than getting back here and standing with my brothers and my pa."

Joe spoke to Hoss. "I still want to see some sights and do some exciting things." He turned to Adam. "But I guess you could say my journey began and ended in the same place. The place I belong."

At the same time Hoss and Joe were coming to terms with family who'd disappointed them and the realization that each man made his own choices, upstairs, Olive had some questions—and demands—of her own . . .

"Well, now," Ben said, setting the journal atop the dresser as he passed, "it's good to see you propped up and with a little color in your cheeks. I'm Ben Cartwright. You're in my home, and you're going to be just fine."

"I don't need your home or you're doctoring, and I'll be fine as soon as you tell me where Gunnar Borgstrom is!"

A young woman who'd done what Olive had would be strong, but Ben hadn't anticipated such directness.

"He's my so-called father, and he stole from me and my grandfather, and I'm sure his sister must know where he is!"

Ben's eyes widened. "She doesn't know," he thought. "Gunnar never told Medora that Inger's dead."

"Don't look so shaken, Mr. Cartwright," Olive said. "I know all about you." She pressed against the mattress and attempted to raise herself higher. She failed. "You're a man who makes people believe you have their best interests at heart and then you disappear!" Her anger was getting the best of her, and she clutched her ribs. Her eyes filled with tears, and her tone held softer contemp. "You're no better than my father."

"You're wrong." Ben walked to the dresser and picked up the journal. When he turned he saw surprise on Olive's face.

"That's mine! You have no right-"

"You're wrong, again."

This time, Ben's voice carried a sternness she hadn't heard since her grandfather.

"I have every right." Ben sat in the bedside chair and laid the journal on his lap. "You came to Nevada, posed as a man, and prevented my son from completing a much needed grand swing of my property. You got yourself trapped in an arroyo, gave reason for Doctor Martin to travel to this house not once, but twice-"

"He knows I was faking," Olive thought, her cheeks reddening.

"You lived on my land, used my line shack, and inquired in Virginia City about me and my Ponderosa."

Olive's expression was one of confusion. "Wait. You think I came here to harm you and your Ponderosa?"

"What would you think in my position?"

"I didn't . . . I never would . . ." She shrank back against the pillows.

"I came here to find my father and get my money back."

Ben repositioned the journal on his lap, sitting it on its spine. He held it tightly—for effect. Olive had been deceptive, but considering the lies she obviously believed, he wanted to give her a chance to explain. And he wanted to hear her story before he delivered the news that both Inger and Gunnar were dead.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

As sympathetic as Ben was to anyone's hardship, there was something in Olive's voice that drew him in. He realized that even before he'd learned she was family, he'd started feeling protective toward the young woman.

From what he'd read in the journal and what Olive was saying now, he got a sense that mother and daughter were opposites—Medora hated life at the way station while Olive loved her life amid the constant visitors, magnificent horses, and her doting grandfather, Emmitt.

Olive told of the days after her mother's disappearance and how Emmitt had concocted a story meant to ease the confusion and pain of a frightened five-year-old girl. And it worked, until Olive found the journal and realized her grandfather's deception.

Ben found he was touched by Emmitt's obvious love for his granddaughter—Ben himself had struggled with how to help Adam when Inger was killed and Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe when Marie died, as well. But he hadn't found it necessary to lie about their mothers to ease his sons' pain.

Olive continued the story, up until the day she and the way station hands buried Emmitt Jacobson. She told Ben about sitting at her grandfather's grave after everyone had gone, and the promise she made to his memory—that she'd find Gunnar Borgstrom and get back the money he'd stolen. As she spoke, Olive's tears flowed as freely in the Ponderosa bedroom as they had on that day just a year ago.

Ben offered a handkerchief, which Olive accepted with a slight smile. He poured a glass of water, and when she finished drinking, her story jumped ahead in time.

"I was only sixteen, and running the station was difficult at first, but I have good help. Most of them have been with the Humboldt Station for many years. They respect me and my abilities, but more so, they loved and respected Grandpa. And so did I, until . . ."

Olive choked back her words.

Ben felt sure he could summarize the rest of her tale. "Until you found and read your mother's journal."

Wiping her tears, Olive looked away and nodded, and Ben was reminded of just how young she was.

"Your mother loved Gunnar," Ben said softly.

Olive bit on her upper lip and shook her head. "I thought so, at first, but the more I read, the more I thought she loved the stories he told, the places he said he'd show her, the way he offered to take her away from the station and the life she hated.

"I didn't know about that hate until I read her words . . ." Olive's head pounded and she reached for the source.

"You took quite a fall out there," Ben said. "Bumped your head more than once on the way down."

The memory of the fall shown on Olive's face.

"Doctor Martin says you'll be up and around as soon as your ribs heal—with a crutch or a cane, that is. Your knee will take a little while longer. You are lucky, you know."

Olive sighed. "How so?"

"A few more days, maybe a week, and that arroyo will be filled with winter run-off."

Olive stared into the distance. "I would have drowned . . ." She nodded slowly. "Or it wouldn't have happened at all. That fawn, the one I helped, would have drowned and I never would have heard its cry."

"You're right, I suppose. Sometimes, things happen for a reason, Olive."

"There's a reason for my fall?"

Ben shook his head. "You misunderstood. I would never wish what happened at the arroyo on anyone, but it did bring you here."

"Sooner than I planned."

She smiled a bit, and so did Ben.

A few seconds later, Olive worked up the courage to look Ben in the eye. "I guess it must have seemed as if I meant you harm."

"I won't lie to you. It did seem that way, especially to my youngest son."

Olive shifted and grimaced when a stitch caught her side. "Mr. Cartwright, is omitting something the same as lying about it?"

Ben smiled. Over the years, he'd had the same question posed to him by all three of his sons.

"Suppose you tell me more about it," he said.

"I was five when my mother left. I don't remember her, Mr. Cartwright. I counted on Grandpa to tell me about her, and he did. But he colored the stories and added things that weren't quite true and left out the things he thought I shouldn't know.

"I was sixteen when Grandpa died. For eleven years, he'd told me about my mother's beauty and her love of nature. He painted a picture that a child who misses her mother needed to hold dear.

"But Grandpa never told me how sad she was, how much she wanted to leave. And he out and out lied about why she left."

Ben searched for the right words, but before he found them, Olive continued.

"And now that Grandpa's gone, I can never ask him if my mother ever wanted me. I mean, she left me, not because she was ill, not because we were separated by storm or disaster, but because she wanted to leave." Olive choked back a sob, and a jolt surged across her ribs.

Ben was on his feet. "Easy now," he said. "Take a breath. I know it hurts, just a shallow breath or two. That's it."

"My ribs hurt, Mr. Cartwright, but not as much as finding out my mother just up and left me."

Olive calmed under Ben's care, and she nodded as the pain subsided. "She left me, Mr. Cartwright," she said softly, looking up into caring eyes, "and I never saw or heard from her again."

Ben brushed the hair from Olive's forehead. "I know a little about loss, dear, and you've certainly had more than your share, and at such a young age."

"I don't need your sympathy, Mr. Cartwright, but I do appreciate your kindness. I . . . I didn't expect it."

Ben sat down and glanced at the journal. "You expected me to be the man your mother wrote about, the man Gunnar described to her."

"Yes."

Ben could only imagine Olive's feelings at the moment, and he didn't want to pile on more despair. But she'd been honest with him, and he owed her the same—she was, after all, his and Inger's niece.

"Your father, my brother-in-law, was as unhappy in his life as your mother appears to have been. He wanted more, but he never worked to earn it. He never forgave his own father for burdening him with a sister and a mercantile, and he never forgave me or his sister for leaving him with a store he couldn't sell."

Something in Olive's expression told Ben she believed him, but that belief was adding to her feelings of betrayal.

"Olive, your mother had no way of knowing the truth. She believed what Gunnar told her."

"She should have listened to Grandpa," Olive said. "She wrote that he told her over and over how Gunnar was taking advantage of her hospitality, how he was a man with no direction or purpose, how he'd move on and leave her behind."

"Love can cause deaf ears, Olive."

"I guess you're right. Mama and Grandpa suffered because of her so called love. The money my father stole was all she and Grandpa had. It took years for him to rebuild the station's success, and in her journal, she wrote that she hated her own father for the extra work it brought on."

"Gunnar's sister, your Aunt Inger, suffered because of Gunnar's selfishness, as well. She agonized over his unhappiness, even considered putting her own happiness—with me and my son, Adam—aside to stay with Gunnar and run the store."

Olive watched sadness creep over Ben's face.

"Mr. Cartwright, what haven't you told me?"

 _She read my mind . . . just like Inger._

"Mr. Cartwright? I know you have no reason to believe me, but I am being completely honest with you. I've made a long journey to find my father and get back what's rightfully mine. Please, be honest with me now."

Ben admired Olive's resolve, yet he dreaded being the bearer of such news. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

"Olive, there's no easy way to tell you the truth."

"Please, Mr. Cartwright."

"Olive . . . Inger is dead. And so is your father."

As he bent down and scooped up the mess, Hop Sing continued complaining.

"Not little boy anymore. Why you throw apple?"

"Hop Sing, I said I'll-"

"Hop Sing very busy. No have time to clean up after little boy!"

Adam snickered and Joe giggled aloud.

"I don't think Hoss was ever a **little** boy," Joe said winking at Adam.

Hoss shot his best 'I'm gonna pound you' look Joe's way.

"I'm sorry about the mess, Hop Sing," Hoss said as he bent down for a stray hunk of smashed fruit.

"You no throw food. You sit and wait for father like ev'rybody else."

"You don't need to wait any longer," Ben said, standing at the top of the staircase. "Our guest is awake." He started down the stairs. "And I believe there's some warm broth in the kitchen?"

Hop Sing smiled. "Broth nice and warm. I put in bowl, take up to Missy right away."

"Thank you, Hop Sing," Ben said.

Joe got up quickly and headed for the staircase.

"Joseph, please, sit down."

Joe looked past his father and at his brothers. "Pa, we've been waiting for answers, and-"

"Joe, sit down. I've got some things to tell you. All of you."

"But Pa, I want to hear it from-"

"Joseph."

Ben's tone directed Joe to the hearth, and once he sat beside the crackling fire, Ben began. "Olive is recovering from more than a fall." He glanced at the clock across the room. "She and I spent the last hour getting to know one another, and between what I read in the journal and what she's told me, I feel sure we have nothing to fear from her."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

Similar experiences unite strangers as well as family.

As Ben reiterated his conversation with Olive, he studied Joe's face. It was obvious his youngest son was touched by Olive's past.

Ben already knew how Hoss felt. His middle son had made that clear when yesterday, he'd suggested he be the one to stay with Olive, to calm her, to make her feel safe.

It was his eldest who stood quietly, leaning against Ben's desk. It shouldn't have been a surprise that by the time Olive's tale came full circle, Adam still had doubts—one in particular. After all, Olive was Hoss's cousin, and she, Hoss, and Joe shared having been lied to and feeling disappointed by family.

"Pa, I know I haven't spoken to the girl, but-"

"Olive," Hoss said abruptly. "Her name's Olive."

Adam nodded his apology. "I haven't spoken to Olive, and I sympathize with anyone who's had so much disappointment, but Pa, isn't it possible that while it is all true-"

"You sayin' you don't believe her?" Hoss asked, ready to defend his cousin.

Adam cocked his head. "If you'll let me finish. She says," he glared at Hoss, "and I believe her, that she came here because the names Benjamin and Inger Cartwright were her only connections to her father."

"That's right," Ben said.

"She didn't know what had happened to Inger or Gunnar."

"Yes."

"Pa, did she mention she wanted to meet Inger? To get to know her aunt and her aunt's husband?"

"Well, no, but-"

"She wanted to find Gunnar and take back the money he stole."

"Adam," Hoss said, losing patience with his brother, "what are you getting' at?"

Adam pushed away from the desk and, rubbing the back of his neck, took a few steps. He turned and faced his father and brothers. "Olive is a smart young woman. Even if Inger had been here, or if Pa could tell her where to find Gunnar, did she really think he'd have the stolen money let alone turn it over to a daughter he never knew existed?"

Ben pivoted his chair and waved into the air the remarks Hoss and Joe were about to make.

"Adam, the element you're missing in all of this is the emotion I heard in Olive's voice and the confusion and anger I saw in her eyes."

Adam knew his father's tone, and he knew it was best to let him speak his mind without interruption.

"Now," Ben continued, "before you suggest she might be play acting, let me say this—I've been the object of a con or two in my days, and I don't believe Olive is such."

Ben paused, expecting a retort. He got none.

"And," Ben continued, "before you say I might be blinded by an injured, pretty, young girl who just happens to be my niece, remember that she didn't march right up to our front door because she was frightened of a man she'd only read about—the Benjamin Cartwright who ruined her father's life."

Ben leaned his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands. "Can you imagine losing your grandfather, the man who raised you, long before he actually passes, to a disease of the mind, and then finding out he lied to you, even out of love? And you find yourself with the names of three strangers who might hold the answers you need to move forward and no way to know for sure where those three people are or if they can be trusted?"

Adam knew his father so well. Hidden in the statements he'd just made were his own demons—the loss of three precious wives, the fear of the unknown in the wagon train west, the courage needed to raise three sons without their mothers, and, once the Ponderosa became a lucrative holding and a beloved home, never knowing for sure which strangers could be believed or trusted.

"Pa," Hoss said, "you always taught us to listen 'n' then put ourselves in the other person's place."

"That's right, son."

Joe ran a hand through his hair. "If I was that gal, I'm not sure I'd have done anything different."

Ben smiled first at Hoss and Joe, and then turned his attention to Adam. "If you'd have seen her a while ago, heard her talk about her grandfather and the life she led before she learned what made her feel as if it was all a sham . . . Adam, I think you'd believe her, too."

"A leap of faith," Hoss said softly. "That's what my mother always said, ain't that right, Pa?"

Ben was touched. He'd often told stories of Inger and her trusting nature. "That's right, Hoss, and I'm asking you three to take a leap of faith—with me. I believe her, and I'd like to count on you, all three of you, to welcome Olive into the family."

Three weeks went by, and under the diligent care of the Cartwrights and Hop Sing, Olive healed and regained her strength. Duties around the ranch and at the timber project were shuffled, leaving Ben and Hoss more time near the house; more time to get to know Inger's niece.

Adam and Joe spent as much time as possible with Olive, Adam discussing poetry and his latest reading material and Joe curious to learn just how a young woman managed to run the Humboldt Way Station.

Then came the final Sunday Olive spent at the Ponderosa. She needed to get back to Humboldt Wells, and although she now considered the Cartwrights her family and the Ponderosa her second home, there were pressing matters at the station that couldn't be handled in a telegram.

Olive would leave on the Monday morning stage, and at breakfast the day before, Ben announced that he and his sons would skip Sunday services so they could spend the entire day together.

While Olive appreciated the gesture, she had an announcement of her own. She wanted to attend services alongside the Cartwrights. It would be her first visit to Virginia City as Olive Jacobson—not the mysterious young "man".

From the dresses Ben had had sent from town, Olive selected the one Hoss called his favorite. He'd told her the color made her eyes sparkle. She paid detailed attention to her hair, adding a matching ribbon that flowed down along her long locks.

All eyes were on the Cartwrights as they rode up to the church in their four-seater buggy. Hoss, riding his horse, rushed to dismount and be the one to offer his hand to Olive as she got down from the buggy. As they entered the church, Hoss looked about to burst with pride, and Olive smiled up at her newfound cousin.

The remainder of the day was spent leisurely. As Hop Sing worked in the kitchen to prepare Olive's favorite foods, she and the Cartwrights lingered on the porch in the sweet, spring breeze.

Adam had fetched his guitar, and he strummed softly as they listened to Olive singing "Beautiful Dreamer." A sing-a-long followed, and afterward, more than an hour of questions and answers about Humboldt Station.

That evening, as Ben and Adam sipped after-dinner brandy, Olive stood, took a deep breath, and addressed the four men she'd grown to admire.

"The stage leaves at dawn, and rather than wait for morning, there are a few things I'd like to say." She's barely finished her sentence when a lump tugged at the back of her throat. "Oh, my . . . I am going to miss you all." Tears welled in her eyes and stung her nose.

Hoss quickly offered the handkerchief from his Sunday vest pocket. Olive took the cloth and dabbed at her eyes.

Ben placed his glass on the table and sank back into his chair. "What is it you'd like to say, dear?"

Olive balled the handkerchief in her hands, a measure of strength building with her grip. "I've said everything before"—she looked at each man as she spoke—"to each of you, to all of you together. But this morning, when it struck me I was really leaving . . . Well, when I left Humboldt Wells, I was bound and determined to get back the money Gunnar Borgstrom stole."

Olive looked down at her hands and back up again. "I was lying—to myself." She huffed. "I find out much of my life has been a lie and I lie to myself." Her eyes shone with sincerity as she looked at Ben. "It was never really about the money."

Ben caught Adam's regret—it was written on his face.

"I was really looking for a way to find out who I am. You see, thinking things are one way only to find they are not, well, I needed to find my father to find out who I really am.

"Instead, I found you, all of you, and being here, talking things through with you, hearing your opinions and advice . . . I found out I knew myself all along. The journey brought me here, and now, it is taking me back where I began."

"You really have to go?" Hoss asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

Olive smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I do, cousin." She stepped toward the warmth of the fire in the hearth. "My life in Humboldt may have been based on well-intentioned lies, but it was still my life, and it made me who I am."

"Well, I like who you are," Joe said, trying to lighten the mood, "but I'm still gonna miss having you around. Not many can say they know a gal who lived on the mountain in winter, all alone. One who wears men' clothes and wolverine pelts-"

"And has a taste for horehound candies," Adam added.

Everyone laughed, but the room soon grew silent and sadly awkward.

Hoss stared at his clasped hands and scrunched his lips. "You'll write, won'tcha?"

"I promise," Olive said, "but only if you promise to answer."

"I promise."

Ben finished his brandy and held on to the glass. "And you'll visit as often as you like."

Suddenly, Olive felt renewed. "Oh, I completely forgot." She turned to Hoss. "The telegram that came for me the other day was a reminder that the Army is coming to the station in July to look over my horses. I hope to sell them twenty five or so. Hoss, could you come up to Humboldt Wells and advise me during the army's visit?"

Hoss's eyes were wide. He looked to his father. "The late-spring drive'll be over by then. Pa? Can ya spare me for a month or so?"

Ben smiled. He'd already decided to suggest Hoss visit Olive, and the timing was perfect. "Well, I don't see why n-"

"Hey, if Hoss gets to go, can I go too?" Joe asked.

Adam perked up, as well. "Pa, I'm sure you could handle the-"

Ben waved a hand in the air. "Now, hold on. I reckon I can spare Hoss for a month, and with the drive over, I guess Joe could go along, but-"

"But you need me to handle the summer contracts while you and Hank and the boys run the ranch."

Olive sighed. "I'm sorry, Adam. It would have been wonderful having all of you come for a visit. You're always welcome, and I really mean that."

And so it was that the Cartwrights rose long before dawn and drove Olive into Virginia City to catch the early morning stage. The scene was bittersweet as she said goodbye to each man, and she was as overwhelmed by their sincerity as she was her own sadness.

As the stage pulled away, Olive smiled and waved from the window, and an hour into the trip, she suddenly smiled.

 _For nearly a year, ever since I found Mama's journal, I've thought of nothing except my grandfather's lies, the father I never knew, stolen money, and an evil man named Benjamin Cartwright._

 _I never have to think of those things again. Instead, the end of this journey leaves me with a truthful understanding of my past—compassion for my mother, forgiveness for Grandpa, and a brand new family I care for with all my heart._


	30. Chapter 30

Epilogue

A warm, summer breeze skimmed through the open window and across the Ponderosa kitchen. Hop Sing muttered in Chinese as he set two full plates inside the warm wood oven.

At the dining table, Ben and Adam enjoyed roast pork, boiled potatoes, and peas. The telegram sat unfolded near the center of the table, and the conversation had just arrived at the topic on both their minds—Olive and the sale of her stock to the Army.

"Top dollar," Ben said. "Those must have been some mighty fine horses to garner top dollar."

Adam nodded and stabbed at the last piece of pork on his plate. "I'm sure Joe and Hoss will have a lot to tell us when that stage finally gets in."

Ben nodded and poured himself another cup of coffee. "It's a good thing Hoss thought to send word about the stage breaking an axle. Otherwise, Hank would have been waiting in Virginia City instead of bringing us word."

Adam shook out his napkin and then wiped the corners of his mouth. "I just hope Hop Sing calms down about keeping those plates warm long before Hoss and Joe get-"

Ben and Adam jumped to their feet at the sound of the front door crashing open.

Joe rushed into the entry, his face lit like a child on Christmas morning. "Hey, Pa! Hey, Adam! Have we got a surprise for you!"

Before Ben or Adam could speak, Hoss rushed inside, as well.

Ben stood, hands on his hips, surprised to see his sons, and curious about Joe's announcement. "With the stage trouble, we didn't expect the two of you until tomorrow."

Hoss was bursting at the seams. "We decided we couldn't wait, so we got us some horses and rode the rest of the way. Our bags won't get here till tomorrow's stage"—Hoss's grin widened—"but we did bring one package with us."

Adam crossed his arms against his chest. "Do we have to guess, or are you going to-"

"Hello Uncle Ben. Hello Adam."

Walking into the lantern light on the Ponderosa porch was Olive.

Joe practically giggled. "How's that for a surprise package, huh Pa?"

"Well now," Ben said drawing Olive into an embrace, "this is quite a surprise. Isn't it, Adam?"

Adam hugged Olive next. "A very unexpected, welcome surprise."

Ben couldn't seem to stop smiling. "Is someone going to tell us what's going on?"

With Hoss and Joe grinning from ear to ear, Olive, wearing her riding dungarees and a straw hat, announced that, as long as the invitation still stood, she was on the Ponderosa to stay.


End file.
